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THE BARONET’S BRIDE 


A WOMAN’S VENGEANCE. 



MA V A GIVES FLEMING. 


EDITED BY W, J. BENNERS'. Jr. 



NEW YORK, 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, fey 
DAVIS & ELVERSON, 

in the Office of the aerk of the District Court of the United States, in and for 
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 


The Baronet’s Bride; or, A Woman’s Vengeance. 


THE BARONETS BRIDE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE BAEOHET’S BRIBE. 

“ And there is danger of death — for mother and child 

“ Well, no. Sir Jasper— no, sir; no certain danger, yon 
know; but in these protracted cases — Dr. Parker God- 
roy paused, and coughed behind his hand“-“ it can do no 
harm, Sir Jasper, for the clergyman to be here. He may. 
not be needed — let us hope he will not be— but your goo!} 
lady is very weak — very weak, I am sorry to say. Sir Jas- 
per Kingsland.^^ 

“1 will send for the clergyman,^’ Sir Jasper Kingsland 
said, not looking at the grave little London doctor. “ Do 
your best, as I know you will. Doctor Godroy, and for 
God’s sake let me know the worst or best as soon as may 
be. This torture of suspense is horrible.” 

His voice was sharp and harsh with inward pain. Dr. 
Parker Godroy looked sympathetically at him through his 
gold-bowed spectacles. 

“ 1 will do my best. Sir Jasper,” he said, gravely. 
“ The result is in the hands of the GTeat Dispenser of life 
and death. Send for the clergyman, and wait and hope.” 

He quitted the library as he spoke. Sir Jasper Kings- 
land seized the bell and rang a shrill peal. 

“ Ride to the village — ride for your life!” he said, im- 
perativel}", to the servant who answered, “ and fetch the 
Reverend Cyrus Green here at once.” 

The man bowed and departed, and Sir Jasper Kings- 
land, Baronet, of Kingsland Court, was alone — alone in 
the gloomy grandeur of the vast library; alone with his 
thoughts and the wailing midnight storm. 

For it was midnight, A clock high up in an ancient 
turret pealed noisily forth the weird hour when “ church- 


6 THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 

yards yawn and graves give up their dead,^^ and an army 
of rooks, disturbed in their “beauty sleep by the dis- 
cordant noise, cawed harshly in reply. A little toy time- 
piece of buhl on the stone mantel chimed musically its 
story of the hour, and Sir Jasper Kingsland lifted his 
gloomy eyes for a moment at the sound. He was leaning 
against the old, quaintly carved chimney-piece, looking at 
the smoldering fire, his dark face full of unutterable trouble 
and pain. A tall, spare, middle-aged man, handsome 
once — handsome still, some people said — with iron-gray 
hair and a proud, patrician face, 

“ Twelve,^^ his dry lips whispered to themselves — mid- 
night, and for three hours I have endured this maddening 
agony of suspense! Another day is given to the world, 
and before its close all I love best may be cold and stark 
in death! Oh, my God! have mercy, and spare her!’^ 

He lifted his clasped hands in passionate appeal. There 
was a picture opposite — a gem of EaphaeTs — the Man of 
Sorrows fainting under the weight of the cross, and the 
fire’s shine playing upon it seemed to light the pallid feat- 
ures with a derisive smile. 

“ The mercy you showed to others, the same shall be 
shown to you. Tiger heart, you were merciless in the days 
gone by. Let your black, bad heart break, as you have 
broken others!” 

No voice had sounded, yet he was answered. Conscience 
had spoken in trumpet-tones, and with a hollow groan the 
baronet turned away and began pacing up and down. 

It was a large and spacious apartment, this library of 
Kingsland Court, dimly lighted now by the flickering 
wood-fire and the mellow glow of a branch of wax-lights. 
Huge book-cases filled to overflowing lined the four walls, 
and pictures precious as their weight in rubies looked 
duskily down from their heavy frames. Busts and bronzes 
stood on brackets and surmounted doors; a thick, rich car- 
pet of moss-green, sprinkled with oak leaves and acorns, 
muffled the tread; voluminous draperies of dark green 
shrouded the tall, narrow windows. The massive chairs 
and tables, fifty years old at least, were spindle-legged and 
rich in carving, upholstered in green velvet and quaintly 
emljroidered by hands moldered to dust long ago. Every- 
thing was old and grand, and full of storied interest. And 
there, on the wall, was the crest of the house — the uplifted 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. ^ 

hand grasping a dagger — and the motto, in old Norman 
French, “ Strike once, and strike vvell.^^ 

Sir Jasper Kingsland, the last of a long line that traced 
their ancestry far back beyond the days of the baronet- 
making king, Janies the First, stood alone to-night, and 
took note of all these things, with a dreary sort of wonder 
that they could afford him no help and no comfort in his 
hour of supremest need. 

It is a very fine thing to be a baronet— a Kingsland of 
Kingsland, with fifteen thousand a year, and the finest old 
house in the county; but if Death will stalk grimly over 
your threshold and snatch away the life you love more 
than your own, then even that glory is not omniscient. 
For this wintery midnight, while Sir Jasper Kingsland 
walks moodily up and down — up and down — Lady Kings- 
land, in the chamber above, lies ill unto death. 

An hour passes — the clock in the turret and the buhl 
toy on the stone mantel toll solemnly one. The embers 
drop monotonously through the grate — a dog bays deeply 
somewhere in the quadrangle below— the wailing wind of 
coming morning sighs lamentingly through the tossing 
copper-beeches, and the roar of the surf afar off comes 
ever and anon like distant thunder. The house is silent 
as the tomb — so horribly silent that the cold drops start 
out on the face of the tortured man. Who knows? Death 
has been on the threshold of that upper chamber all night, 
waiting for his prey. This awful hush may be the psean 
that proclaims that he is master! 

A tap at the door. The baronet paused in his stride and 
turned his blood-shot eyes that way. His very voice w^as 
hollow and unnatural as he said: 

“Come in. 

A servant entered — the same who had gone his errand. 

“ The Reverend Cyrus Green is here, sir. Shall I show 
Lim up?’^ 

“ Yes— no— I can not see him. Show him into the 
drawing-room until he is needed.’^ 

“ He will not be needed, said a voice at his elbow, and 
Doctor Parker Godroy came briskly forward. “ My dear 
Sir Jasper, allow me to congratulate you! All is well, 
thank Heaven, and — it is a son!’^ 

Sir Jasper Kingsland sunk into a seat, thrilling from 


8 THE BAllOXET’S BBIDE. 

}iead to foot, tiirm'ng sick and faint in the sudden revulsipn 
from despair to hope. 

“ Saved he said, in a gasping whisper. “ BotW^ 

“ Both, my dear Sir Jasper!'' the doctor responded, 
cordially. “ Your good lady is very much prostrated — ex- 
hausted— but that was to be looked for, you know; and 
the baby — ah! the finest boy I have had the pleasure of 
presenting to an admiring world within ten years. Come 
and see them!" 

“ aMay 1?" 'the baronet cried, starting to his feet. 

“ Certainly, my dear Sir Jasper — most certainly. There 
is nothing in the world to hinder — only be a little cautious, 
you know. Our good lady mustn't be excited the least in 
life. She must be kept composed and quiet, and left to 
sleep; and you will just take one peep, and go. We won't 
need the Reverend Cyrus this bout." 

He led the way from the library, rubbing his hands as 
your brisk little physicians do, up a grand stair- way where 
you might have driven a coach and four, and into a lofty 
and most magnificently furnished bed-chamber. 

The sick lady lay in a bed m the center of the room — a 
lofty, four-posted affair, carved and quaint and old as the 
hills, and covered and draped with white. But whiter than 
the draperies— whiter than the winter snow — her face 
looked up from the pillows, awfully corpse-like in its 
(leathly pallor. The eyes were closed; the small, bloodless 
hands lay loose on the counterpane. In her shroud and 
winding-sheet she would never look more ghastly than 
that. 

“ Quiet, now — quiet," the doctor whispered, warningly. 

■ “ Excite her, and I won't be answerable for the result." 

Sir Jasper Kingsland replied with a rapid gesture, and 
walked forward to the bed. His own face was perfectly 
colorless, and his lips were twitching with intense sup- 
pressed feeling. He bent above the still form. 

“ Olivia," he said, “ my darling, my darling!" 

The heavy eyelids fluttered and lifted, and a pair of 
haggard, dark e^^es gazed up at him. A wan smile parted 
those pallid lips. 

“ Dear Jasper! I knew you would come. Have you 
seen the baby? It is a boy." 

“ My own, I have thought only of you. My poor, pale 
wife, how awfully death-like you look!" 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 9 

“But I am not going to die~Doctor Godroy says so/^ 
smiling gently. “ And now you must go, for I can not 
talk. Only kiss me first, and look at the baby.^^ 

Her voice was the merest whisper. He pressed his lips 
passionately to the white face and rose up. Nurse and 
baby sat in state by the fire, and a slender girl of fifteen 
years knelt beside them, and gazed in a sort of rapture at 
the infant prodigy. > 

“Look, papa — look! The loveliest little thing, and 

nurse says the very picture of you!’^ 

The young girl — Miss Mildred Kingsland, and until to- 
night the baronets only child — pulled away a profusion of 
flannel „and displayed triumphantly a little red, wrinkled 
face. Not very lovely, certainly; but Sir Jasper Kings- 
land^s eyes lighted with pride and joy as he looked. For 
was it not a boy? Had he not at last, after- weary, weary 
waiting, the desire of his heart— a sou to inherit the estate 
and perpetuate the ancient name? 

“ It is so sweet, papa!^^ Miss Mildred whispered, her 
small, rather sickly face quite radiant; “ and its eyes are 
the image of yours. He’s asleep now, you knwv, and you 
can’t see them. And look at the dear, darling little hands 
and fingers and feet, and the speck of a nose and the dot 
of a mouth! Oh, papa! isn’t it splendid to have a baby 
in the house?” 

“ Very splendid,” said papa, relaxing into a smile. “ A 
fine little fellow, nurse! There, cover him up again and 
let him sleep. We must take extra care of the heir of 
Kingsland Court. And, Mildred, child, you should be in 
bed. One o’clock is no hour for little girls to be out of 
their nests. ” 

“ Oh, papa!” reproachfully; “ as if I could sleep and 
not see the baby!” 

“ Well, you have seen it, and now run away to your 
room. Mamrna and baby both want to sleep, and nurse 
doesn’t need you, I am sure.” 

“ That I don’t,” said nurse, “ nor the doctor, either. 
So run away. Miss Milly, and go to sleep yourself. The 
baby will be here, all safe for you, in the morning.” 

The little girl — a fiaxen-haired, pretty-featured child — 
kissed the baby, kissed papa, and dutifully departed. Sir 
Jasper followed her out of the ix)om, down the stairs, and 
back into the library, with the face of a man who has just 


10 


THE BAROITET'S bride. 


been reprieved from sudden death. As he re-entered the 
library, he paused and started a step back, gazing fixedly 
at one of the windows. The heavy curtain had been 
partially drawn back, and a white> spectral face was glued 
to the glass, glaring in. 

“Who have we here?’^ said the baronet to himself; 
“ that face can belong to no one in the house. 

He walked straight to the window — the face never 
moved. He could see the snow falling noiselessly, rapidly 
— the ground covered, the spectral face set in a wintery 
frame of white flakes. A hand was raised and tapped on 
the glass. A voice outside spoke: ^ 

“ For Heaven’s sake, open and let me in, before I per- 
ish in this bitter storm. ” 

Sir Jasper Kingsland opened the window and flung it 
wide. A rush of bitter wind, a shower of snow whirled in 
his face. 

“ Enter! whoever you are,” he said. “No one shall 
ask in vain at Kingsland, this happy night.” 

He stepped back, and, all covered with snow, the mid- 
night intruder entered and stood before him. And Sir 
Jasper Kingsland saw the strangest-looking creature he 
had ever beheld in the whole course of his life. 


CHAPTER II. 

ACHMET THE ASTROLOGER. 

Ah old man, yet tall and upright, wearing a trailing 
cloak of dull black, long gray hair flowing over the shoul- 
ders, and tight to the scalp a skull-cap of black velvet. 
A patriarchal beard, abundant and silver- white, streamed 
down his breast, and out of a dull, white face, seamed and 
wrinkled, looked a pair of eyes piercing and black. 

Sir Jasper took a step backward, and regarded this 
singular apparition in undisguised wonder. The old man 
folded his arms across his bosom and made him a profound 
Oriental salaam. 

“ The Lord of Kingsland gazes in amaze at the unin- 
vited midnight stranger. And yet I think dekiny has 
sent me hither.” 

“ Who are -you?” the baronet demanded. “ What 
jugglery is this? Are you dressed for an Eastern dervish 
in a melodrama, and have you come here to play a prac- 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 11 

tical joke? I am afraid I can not appreciate the humor 
of the masquerade. Who are you?’^ sternly. 

The old man folded his arms again, and once more bent 
servilely low. 

“ Men call me Achmet the Astrologer. 

“ An astrologer? Humph! your black art, it seems, 
could not protect you from a January storm,-’^ retorted 
Sir Jasper, with a cynical sneer. “But come in — come 
in. Astrologer or demon, or whatever you are, you look 
too old a man to be abroad such a night, when we would 
not turn an enemy’s dog from the house. The doors of 
Kingsland are never closed to the tired wayfarer, and of 
all nights in the year they should not be closed to-night.” 

“ When an heir is born to an ancient name and a prince- 
ly inheritance, you speak rightly, my Lord of Kingsland.” 

Sir Jasper was closing the window; but at the gently 
murmured words he faced sharply round. 

“ How say you? What do you know of the events of 
this night. Sir Astrologer?” 

“ Much, Sir Jasper Kingsland, and for the very reason 
you deride — because 1 am an astrologer. 1 read the stars, 
and I lift the veil of the future, and, lo! I behold your life 
years before you have lived it!” 

Sir Jasper Kingsland laughed a cynical, unbelieving 
laugh. 

“ You jeer at me, you scoff at my words,” murmured the 
old man, in soft, steady tones, “ and yet there was no one 
to tell me on my way here that a son and heir had been 
born to the house of Kingsland within the past hour. ” 

He lifted his arm and pointed to the clock, his full, 
dark eyes fixed in a powerful gaze upon the baronet’s 
changing face. There was majesty in his mien, a lofty 
grace in the gesture, a thrilling sweetness in his voice, that 
indescribably fascinated the listener. 

“You deride the power 1 profess, yet every day you 
quote your English poet, and believe him when he says: 
‘ There are more things in heaven and earth than are 
dreamed of in your philosophy.’ But I am accustomed to 
derision, and it does not offend me. Let me prove my 
power, so that even the most resolute skeptic dare doubt 
no longer. Judge of my skill to read the future by my 
ability in reading the past. I have come here — 1 have 
taken a long journey to look into the future of your, new- 


12 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


born son. Before I begin, let; me look into the past of his 
father. Sir Jasper Kingsland, let me read your palm.” 

But Sir Jasper drew back, his pale, patrician face cold 
and set in proud surprise. 

“ You have taken a long journey to look into the future 
of my son? Pray, my good* astrologer, what is my son to 
you?” 

“ That is my secret. Sir Jasper, and my secrets 1 keep. 
Come, hold forth your hand, and test my skill.” 

“ Why should I? Even if you can bring before me my 
past life, of what use will it be, since I must know all bet- 
ter than you?”' 

My power to read the past may prove my power to 
read the future. ” 

“Nay, you may easily know the j)ast, without magical 
skill. Many thanks, my venerable friend, but I will not 
put your necromancy to the test.” 

The astrologer folded his arms, and looked the haughty 
baronet straight in the eyes until he quailed. 

“ Is Sir Jasper Kingsland afraid?” he said, slowly. 
“ Surely not, for verily he comes of a daring race. And 
yet it seems like it.” 

The baronet made a stride forward, with eyes that blazed 
suddenly like flames. 

“By Heaven! if a younger man had spoken those 
words I would have hurled him by the throat from yonder 
window. Be careful of your words, old man, else even 
your hoary hairs may fail to save you.” 

Once more the astrologer bent servilely. 

“1 cry your mercy, my haughty Lord of Kingsland. 
It shall be as you say.” I will depart as I came. 1 will 
not serve you nor your new-born son, since you refuse to 
be served. I will depart at once. I fear no earthly storm. 
Good-night, Sir Jasper Kingsland. Look to the heir of 
your house yourself. When ‘angels unaware’ visit you 
again, treat them better than you have treated me.” 

With a gesture indescribably grand and kingly, the sil- 
ver-haired old man turned- to go, folding his long cloak 
about him. But the voice of the baronet called him back. 

“ Stay,” he said. “ You speak of serving my son. 
What danger threatens his infant life that you can avert?” 

“ I know of none. I have not cast the horoscope yet.” 

“ Then you wish to do so?” 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


13 


“ With 3"our good permission. I have taken a long and 
toilsome journey for that very purpose, Sir Jasper Kings- 
land.” 

“ Then you shall,^’ the baronet cried, yielding to a swift 
impulse — “ 3^011 shall cast jiis horoscope. If it can avert 
no evil, it can, at least, cause none. But, first, there is 
no action without its ruling motive. What are me or 
mine to you, to make you take a long and toilsome jour- 
ney on our account?’’ 

The old man paused, drawn up to his fullest height, im- 
posing as a new King Lear, his deep, dark eyes glowing 
with inward fire. 

“ 1 will tell you,” he said, in a deep voice. “ Years 
ago. Sir Jasper, when you were a young man, you did an 
honor and a service to one 1 dearly love; that I have never 
forgotten and never will forget! You have ceased to re- 
member it years aga, no doubt; but 1 never have, nor ever 
will until my dying day.” 

The baronet stared. 

“A service! an honor! What could it have been? I 
recollect nothing of it. ” 

“ I expected as much; but my memory is a good one. 
It is stamped on my heart forever. Great men like Sir 
Jasper Kingsland, grandees ot* the land, forget these little 
things rendered to the scum and offal, but the scum and 
offal cherish them eternally. I owe you a long debt. Sir 
Jasper, and I will pay it to the uttermost farthing, so help 
me God!” 

- His black eyes blazed, his low voice rose, his arm up- 
lifted fiercely for an instant in dire menace. Then, quick 
as lightning flashes, all was transformed. The eyes were 
bent upon the carpet, the arms folded, the voice sunk, 
soft and servile. 

“Forgive me!” he murmured. “In my gratitude 1 
forget myself. But you have my motive in coming here 
— the desire to repay you; to look'^into the future of your 
son; to see the evils that may threaten his youth and man- 
hood, and to place you on your guard against them. 
‘ Forewarned is forearmed,’ you know. Do not doubt my 
})Ower. In far-off Oriental lands, under the golden stars 
of Syria, I learned the lore of the wise men of the East. I 
learned to read the stars as you Englishmen read your 


14 


THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 


printed books. Believe and trust, and let me cast the 
horoscope of your son.^^ 

“First let me test your vaunted power. Show me my 
past before you show me my son's future. 

He held forth his hand with a cynical smile. The old 
man took it gravely. 

“ As 3 "ou will. Past and future are alike to me — save 
that the past is easier to read. Ah! a palm seamed and 
crossed and marked with troubled lines. Forty years have 
not gone and left no trace behind — " 

“ Forty years!" interrupted Sir Jasper, with si;^eering 
emphasis. “ Pray do not bungle in the very beginning." 

“ 1 bungle not," answered Achmet, sternly. “ Forty 
years ago, on the third of next month, you, Jasper South- 
down Kingsland, were born beneath this very roof. " 

The baronet looked considerably surprised at this very 
minute statement. 

“ Eight!" he said. “ You know my age. But go on." 

“ Your boyhood you passed here — quiet, eventless years 
— with a commonplace mother and a^dull, proud father. 
At ten, your mother went to her grave. At twelve, the 
late Sir Noel followed her. At thirteen, you, a lonely 
orphan, were removed from this house to London in the 
charge of a guardian that you hated. Am 1 not right?" 

“ You are. Pray go on." 

“ At fourteen, you went to Eugby to school. From that 
time until you attained your majority your life passed in 
public schools and universities, harmlessly and monotonous- 
ly enough. At twenty-one, you left Cambridge, and 
started to make the grand tour. Your life just then gave 
the promise of bright and brilliant things. You were 
tolerably clever; you were young and handsome, and heir 
to a noble inheritance. Your life was to be the life of a 
great and good man — a benefactor of the human race. 
Your memory was to be a magnificent memento for a whole 
world to honor. Your dreams were wild and vague, and 
sublimely impracticable, and ended in — nothing." 

Sir Jasper Kingsland listened and stared like a man in 
a dream, his skepticism fading away like mist before sun- 
rise. Achmet the Astrologer continued to read the palm 
with a fixed, stony face, 

“ And now the lines are crossed, and the trouble begins. 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 


15 


As usual, a woman is at the bottom of it. Sir Jas2)er 
Kingslaiid is in love.^^ 

There was a pause. The baronet winced a little, and 
the astrologer bent lower over the palm. 

“It is in Spain/ ^ he continued, in the dreamy, far-off 
tone of a man who sees a vision— “ glowing, gorgeous 
Spain — and she is one of its loveliest children. The 
oranges and pomegranates scent the burning air, the vine- 
yards glow in the tropic sun, and golden summer forever- 
reigns. But the glowing southern sun is not more brill- 
iant than the Spanish gypsy ^s flashing black eyes, nor the 
pomegranate blossoms half so ripe and red as her cheeks. 
Her step is light as the step of an antelope, her voice sweet 
as the harps of heaven. She is Zenith, the Zingara, and 
you love her!^^ 

“ In the fiend^s name!^' Sir Jasper Kingsland cried, 
‘ * what i ugglery is this ? ’ ^ 

He was ashen white, and his steady voice shook. Calmly 
the astrologer repossessed himself of the baronet^s hand. 

“ One moment more, my Lord of Kingsland, he said, 
“ and I have done. Let me see how your love-dream ends. 
Ah! the old, old story. Surely I might have known. She 
is beautiful as the angels above, and as innocent, and she 
loves you with a mad abandon that is worse than idolatry — 
as only women ever love. And you? You are grand and 
noble, a milor Inglese, and you take her love — her crazy 
worship — as a demi-god might, with uplifted grace, as 
your birthright; and she is your pretty toy of an hour. 
And then, careless and happy, you are gone. Sunny 
Spain, with its olives and its vineyards, its pomegranates 
and its Zenith the Gitana, is left far behind, and you are 
roaming, happy and free, through La Belle France. And 
lo! Zenith the forsaken lies prone on the ground, and 
tears out her hair by the handful, and goes stark mad for 
the day-god she has lost. There, Sir Jasper Kingsland! 
the record is a black one. I wish to read no more.^^ 

He flung the baronet's hand away, and once more his 
eyes glowed like the orbs of a demon. But Sir Jasper 
Kingsland, pale as a dead man, saw it not. 

“ Are you man or devil?" he said, in an awe-struck 
tone. “ No living mortal knows what you have told me 
this night. " 


1(] THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

Achniet the Astrologer smiled — a dire, dark smile, llis 
eyes shone upon the speaker full of deadliest menace. 

“ Man, in league with ” — he pointed downward — “ the 
dark potentate you have named, if you like. Whatever 1 
am, I have truthfully told you the past, as I will truth- 
fully tell your son’s future.” 

“ By palmistty?” 

“ ^^ 0 , by the stars. And behold!” cried the astrologer, 
drawing aside the curtain, “ yonder they shine!” 

Surely, the storm had cleared away, leaving the world 
wrapped in a winding-sheet of dead white, and up in 
heaven the silver stars swung crystal - clear, sparkling 
bright. 

“ Take me to an upper room,” the astrologer exclaimed, 
in an inspired tone, “ and leave me. Destiny is propitious. 
The fate that ruled your son’s birth has set forth the shin- 
ing stars for Achmet to read. Lead on!” 

Like a man in a dreamy swoon. Sir Jasper Kingsland 
obeyed. He led the astrologer up the grand sweeping 
staircases — up and up, to the very top of the house — to the 
lofty, lonely battlements. Cloudless spread the wide night 
sky; countless and brilliant shone the stars; peaceful and 
majestic slept the purple sea; spotless white gleamed the 
snowy earth. A weird, witching scene. 

“Leave me,” said the astrologer, “and watch and 
wait. When the first little pink cloud of sunrise blushes 
in the sky, come to me. My task will have ended.” 

He waved him away with a regal motion. He stood 
there gazing at the stars, as a king looking upon his sub- 
jects. And the haughty baronet, without a word, turned 
and left him. 

The endless hours wore on — two, three, and four — and 
still the baronet watched and waited, and looked for the 
coming of dawn. Faintly the silver light broke in the 
Orient, rosy flushed the first red ray. Sir Jasper mounted 
to the battlements, still like a man in a dazed dream. 

Achmet the Astrologer turned slowly round. The pale, 
frosty sunrise had blanched his ever- white face with a livid 
hue of death. In one hand he held a folded paper, in the 
other a pencil. He had been writing. 

“ Have you doner” the baronet asked. 

“ 1 am done. Your son’s fate is here.” 

He touched the paper; he spoke in a voice of awful sol- 


17 


THE BAROJ^ET'S BRIDE. 

enmity; his eyes had a wild, dilated look, from which Sir 
Jasper shrunk, they looked so horribly like the eyes of a 
man who has been face to face with disembodied spirits. 

“ Is that for me?^^ he asked, shrinking palpably from it 
even while he spoke. 

“This is for you.^’ The astrologer handed him the 
paper as he spoke. “It is for you to read— to do with 
after as you see fit. 1 have but one word to say: not I, 
but a mightier power traced the words you will read — 
your son’s irrevocable fate. Don’t hope to shirk it. Fate 
is fate; doom is doom. My task is ended, and 1 go. Fare- 
well!” 

“ No, no,” the baronet cried; “ not so! Remain and 
breakfast here. The morning is but just breaking.” 

“ And before yonder sun is above the horizon I will be 
far away. No, Sir Jasper Kingsland, 1 break no bread 
under your roof. I have done my work, and depart for- 
ever. Look to your son!” 

He spoke the last words slowly, with a tigerish glare of 
hate leaping out of his eyes, with deadly menace in every 
syllable. Then he was gone down the winding stair- way 
like a black ghost, and so out and away. 

Sir Jasper Kingsland took the folded paper and sought 
his room. There in the pale day-dawn he tore it open. 
One side was covered with cabalistic characters. Eastern 
symbols, curious marks, and hieroglyphics. The other 
side was written in French, in long, clear, legible char- 
acters. There was a heading: “ Horoscope of the Heir of 
Kingsland.” Sir Jasper sat down eagerly, and began to 
read. 

Nearly an hour after, a servant, entering to replenish 
the fade'd fire, fled out of the room and startled the house- 
hold with his shrieks. Two or three domestics rushed in. 
There lay Sir Jasper Kingsland prone on his face on the 
floor, stiff and stark as a dead man. A paper, unintelli- 
gible to all, was clutched tightly as a death grip in his 
hand. Reading that crumpled paper, the strong mail had 
fallen there flat on the floor in a dead swoon. 


18 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


CHAPTER 111. 

THE HUT ON THE HEATH. 

Far away* from the lofty, battlemented ancestral home 
of Sir Jasper Kingsland— miles away where the ceaseless 
sea sparkled the long day through as if sown with stars — 
where the foamy swells rolled in dull thunder up the white 
sands — straight to the seashore went Achmet the Astrolo- 
ger. A long strip of bleak marshland spreading down the 
hill-side and sloping to the sea, arid and dry in the burn- 
ing summer-time— sloppy and- sodden now — that was his 
destination. It was called Hunsden's Heath — a forlorn 
and desolate spot, dotted over with cottages of the most 
wretched kind, inhabited by the most miserable of the 
miserable poor. To one of these wretched hovels, stand- 
ing nearest the sea and far removed from the rest, Ach- 
met swiftly made his way. 

The sun was high in the heavens; the sea lay alLa-glit- 
ter beneath it. The astrologer had got over the ground at 
a swift, swinging stride, and he had walked five miles at 
least; but he paused now, with little sign of fatigue in his 
strange white face. Folding his arms over his breast, he 
surveyed the shining sky, the glittering sea, with a slow, 
dreamy smile. 

“ The sun shines and the sea sparkles on the natal day 
of the heir of Kingsland," he said to himself; “but for 
all that it is a fatal day to him. ‘ The sins of the father 
shall be visited on the children even to the third and fourth 
generation,' saith the Book Christians believe in. Chris- 
tians!" he laughed a harsh, strident laugh. “ Sir Jasper 
Kingsland is a Christian! The religion that produces such 
men must be a glorious one. He was a Christian when he 
perjured himself and broke her heart. 'Tis well. Asa 
Christian he can not object^ to the vengeance Christianity 
teaches." 

He turned away, approached the lonely hut, and tapped 
thrice— sharp, staccato knocks — at the door. The third 
one was answered. The door swung back, and a dark 
damsel looked out. 

“ Is it thee, Pietro?" 

“ It is I, Zara." 


THE baronet's bride. 


19 


He stepped in as he spoke, closed the door, took her 
face between his hands, and kissed both brown cheeks. 
The girTs dark face — a handsome face, with somber shin- 
ing eyes and dark tresses—lighted up into the splendor of 
absolute beauty as she returned his caress. 

“ And how is it with thee, my Zara," the astrologer said, 
“ and thy little one?" 

“ It is well. And thyself, Pietro?" 

“ Very well. And the mother?" 

“ Ah, the mother! Poor mother! She lies as you saw 
her last — as you will always see her in this lower world — 
dead in life! And he " — the girl Zara's eyes lighted fierce- 
ly up — “ didst see him, Pietro?" 

“ I have seen him, spoken to him, told him the past, 
and terrified him for the future. There is a son, Zara — a 
new-born son." 

“ Dog and sou of a dog!" Zara cried, furiously. “ May 
curses light upon him in the hour of his birth, and upon 
all who bear his hated name! Say, Pietro, why didst thou 
not strangle the little viper as you would any other poison- 
ous reptile?" 

The man laughed softly. 

“ My Zara, I did not even see him. He lies cradled in 
rose leaves, no doubt, and the singing of the west wind is 
not sweet enough for his lullaby. No profane eye must 
rest on this sacred treasure fresh from the hands of the 
gods! Is he not the heir of Kingsland? But, sweet, I 
have read the stars for them. Achmet the Astrologer has 
cast his horoscope, and Achmet, and Zara, his wife, will see 
that the starry destiny is fulfilled. Shall we not?" 

“ li I only hadiiim here," Zara cried, clawing the air 
with her two hands, her black eyes blazing, “ I would 
throttle the baby snake, and fling him dead in his father's 
face. And that father! Oh, burning alive would be far 
too merciful for him!'.' 

Achmet smiled, and drew her long black braids caress- 
ingly through his fingers. 

“ You know how to hate, and you will teach our little 
one. Yes, the fate I have foretold shall come to pass, and 
the son of Sir Jasper will live to curse the day of his birth. 
And now I will remove my disguise, and wash and break- 
fast, for I feel the calls of hunger. Then I will see the 
mother." 


20 


THE BAROKET’s BRIDE. 


“She has been waiting for your coming/' Zara said. 
“ She counts the moments when you are away." 

She led the way into the room. There was but the one 
room and a loft above. The lower apartment of the hut 
on the heathy was the very picture of abject poverty and 
dreary desolation. The earthen floor was broken and 
rough; the sunlight came sifting through the chinks in 
the broken walls. A smoky fire of wet driftwood sulked 
and smoldered, black and forbidding, under a pot on the 
crook. There was neither table nor chairs. A straw pal- 
let with a wretched coverlet lay in one' corner; a few broken 
stools were scattered around; a few articles of clothing 
hung on the wall. That was all. 

“ The little one sleeps," the man said, casting a swift 
glance over at the pallet. “Our pretty baby, Zara. Ah! 
if Sir Jasper Kingsland loves his first-born son as we love 
our child, or half so well, we are almost avenged already!" 

“ He had need to love it better than his first-born daugh- 
ter!" Zara said, fiercely. “ The lion loves its whelp, the 
tiger its cub; but he, less human than the brutes, casts off 
his offspring in the hour of its birth!" 

“ Meaning yourself, my Zara?" the man said, with his 
slow, soft smile. “ What would you have, degraded 
daughter of a degraded mother — his toy of an hour? And 
there is another daughter — a fair-haired, insipid nonentity 
of a dozen years, no more like our beautiful one here than 
a farthing rush-light is like the stars of heaven." 

He drew down the tattered quilt, and gazed with shin- 
ing eyes of love and admiration at the sleeping face of a 
child, a baby girl of scarce two years; the cherub face rosy 
with sleep, smiling in her dreams; the long, silky black 
lashes sweeping the flushed cheek; the abundant, feathery, 
jet-black curls floating loosely about — an exquisite picture 
of blooming, healthful, beautiful childhood. 

Zara came to where the man kneit gazing with adoring 
face, her wide black eyes glistening. 

“My beautiful one! my rosebud!" she murmured. 
“ Pietro, the sun shines on nothing half so lovely in this 
lower world!" 

The man glanced up with his lazy smile. 

“ And yet the black, bad blood of the Gitana flows in 
her veins, too. She is a Spanish gypsy, as her mother and 


Tli;-: KKII)!:. 21 

graadinothur beforo her. ISTay, not her mothor, since the 
blue blood of all the Kingslaiids Hows in her veins. 

“ Never !’^ cried Zara, her eyes ablaze. “If 1 tliought 
one drop of that man’s bitter blood throbbed in my heart, 
the first knife I met should let it forth. Look at me!” 
she wildly cried, tossing back her raven hair; “ look at 
me, Pietro— Zara, your wife! Have I one look of him or 
his abhorred English race?” 

“ My Zara, no! You are Sir Jasper Kingsland’s daugh- 
ter, but there is no look of the great Sir Jasper in your 
gypsy face, nor in the face of cur darling, either. She is 
all our own!” 

“ I would strangle her in her cradle, dearly as I love her, 
else!” the woman said, her passionate face aflame. 
“ Pietro, my blood is like liquid fire when 1 think of him 
and iny mother’s wrongs.” 

“ Wait, Zara — wait. The wheel will turn and our time 
come. And now for breakfast! Dost know, wife. Sir 
Jasper Kingsland asked me -to break his bread and drink 
of his cup?” 

“ The villain! the traitor! the. dastard! I only wonder 
the very air of his house did not stifle you! Haste, Pietro, 
and remove this disguise. Your morning meal is ready.” 

She whipped off the pot, removed the lid, and a savory 
gush of steam filled the room. The man Pietro laughed. 

“ Our poached hare smells appetizing. Keep the 
choicest morsel for the piother, Zara, and tell her I will 
be with her presently. There! Achmet the Astrologer lies 
in a heap.” 

He had deftly taken off his flowing cloak, his long, sil- 
very beard and hair, and flung them together in a corner, 
and now he. stood in the center of the room, a stalwart 
young fellow of thirty or thereabouts, with great Spanish 
eyes and profuse curling hair of an inky blackness. 

“ Let me but wash this white enamel off my face,” he 
said, giving himself a shake, “ and Pietro is himself again. 
Sir Jasper would hardly recognize Achmet, I fancy, if he 
saw him now.” 

He walked to a shelf on which was placed a wash-bowl 
and towel, and plunged his face and head into the cold 
water. Five minutes’ vigorous splashing and rubbing, 
and he emerged, his pallid lace brown as a berry, his black 
hair in a snarl of crisp curls. 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


22 

“.And now to satisfy the inner man/’ he said, walking 
over to the pot, seizing a wooden spoon, and drawing up a 
cricket. “ My tramp of last night and this morning has 
made me famously hungry, Zara. ” 

“ And the hare soup is good,” said Zara. “ While you 
breakfast, Pietro, 1 will go to mother. Come up when 
you finish. ” 

A steep stair- way that was like a ladder led to the loft. 
Zara ascended this with agile fieetness, and the late as- 
trologer was left alone at his very unmagician-like work of 
scraping the pot with a wooden spoon. Once or twice, as 
the fancy crossed him of the contrast between Achmet the 
Astrologer reading the stars, and Pietro the tramp scrap- 
ing the bones of the stolen hare, he laughed grimly to 
himself. 

“And the world is made up of just such contrasts,” he 
thought, “ and Pietro at his homely breakfast is more to 
be dreaded than*Achmet casting the horoscope. Ah! Sir 
Jasper Kingsland, it is a very fine thing to be a baronet 
with fifteen thousand pounds a year, a noble ancestral seat, 
a wife you love, and a son you adore. And yet Pietro, the 
vagabond tramp — the sunburned gypsy, with stolen hares 
to eat, and rags to wear, and a hut to lodge in — would not 
exchange places with you this bright March day. We have 
sworn vendetta to you and all of your blood, and by — ” 
he uplifted his arm and swore a fearful oath — “ we will 
keep our vow!” 

His swarthy face darkened with passionate vindictive- 
iiQss as he arose, a devil gleaming in either fierce black 
eye. 

“ ‘ As a man sows so shall he reap,’ ” he muttered be- 
tween his clinched teeth, setting his face toward Kingsland 
Court. “You, my Lord of Kingsland, have sown the 
wind. You shall learn what it is to reap the whirlwind!” 

“ Pietro! Pietro!” crowed a little voice, gleefully. 
“ Papa Pietro! take Sunbeam!” 

The little sleeper in the bed had sat up, her bright, dark 
face sparkling, two little dimpled arms outstretched. 

The man turned, his vindictive face growing radiant. 

“Papa Pietro’s darling! his life! his angel! And how 
does the little Sunbeam?” 

He caught her up, covering her cherub face with impas- 
sioned kisses. 


THE BAROHET S BRIDE. 


23 


“My love! my life! my darling! When Pietro is dead, 
and Zara is old and feeble, and Zenith dust and ashes, you 
will live, my radiant angel, my black-eyed beauty, to per- 
petuate the malediction. When his son is a man, you will 
be a woman, with all a woman^’s subtle power and more 
than a woman’s beauty, and you'will be his curse, and his 
bane, and his blight, as his father has been ours! Will 
you not, my little Sunbeam?” 

“ Yes, papa — yes, papa!” lisped the little one, patting 
his brown cheeks and kissing them lovingly. “ Sunbeam 
is papa’s own girl, and will do what papa says.” 

“ Pietro!” called the voice of his wife above, “ if you 
have done breakfast, come up. Mother is awake and 
would see you.” 

“ Coming, carissima 

He kissed the baby girl, placed her on the pallet, and 
sprung lightly up the steep stair. 

The loft was just a shade less wretched than the apart- 
ment below. There was a bed on the floor, more decently 
covered, two broken chairs, a table with some medicine- 
bottles and cups, and a white curtain on the one poor win- 
dow. By this window Zara stood, gazing out over the 
sunlit sea. 

On the bed lay a woman, over whom Pietro bent rever- 
ently the moment he entered the room. It was the wreck 
of a woman who, in the days gone by, must have been 
gloriously beautiful; who was beautiful still, despite the 
ravages years, and sickness, and poverty, and despair had 
wrought. 

The eyes that blazed brilliant and black were the eyes of 
2ara — the eyes of the baby Sunbeam below^ — and this wom- 
an was the mother of one, the grandmother of the other. 

Pietro knelt by the pallet and tenderly kissed one trans- 
parent hand. The great black eyes turned upon him wild 
and wide. 

“ Thou hast seen him> Pietro?” in a breathless sort of 
way. “ Zara says so.” 

” 1 have seen him, my mother; I have spoken to him. 
1 spent hours with Sir Jasper Kingsland last'night.” 

“ Thou didst?” Her words came pantingly, while pas- 
sion throbbed in every line of her face. “ And there is a- 
son — an heir?” 

“ There is.” 


24 


IHE baronet's bride. 

She snatched her hand away and threw up her withered 
arms with a vindictive shriek. 

“ And I lie here, a helpless log, and he triumphs I I, 
Zenith, the Qiieen of the Tribe — 1, once beautiful and pow- 
erful, happy and free! I lie here, a withered hulk, what 
he has made me! And a son and heir is born to him!" 

As if the thought had goaded her to a frenzy of madness, 
she leaped up in bed, tossipg her gaunt arms and shrieking 
madly: 

“ Take me to him — take me to him! Zara! Pietro! 
Take me to him, if ye are children of mine, that 1 may 
hurl my burning curse upon him and his son before I die! 
Take me to him, I say, or I will curse ye!" 

She fell back with an impotent scream, and the man 
Pietro caught her in his arms. Quivering and convulsed, 
foaming at the mouth and black in the face, she writhed 
in an epileptic fit. 

“ She will kill herself yet," Pietro said. “ Hand me 
the drops, Zara. " 

Zara poured something out of a bottle into a cup, and 
Pietro held it to the sick woman's livid lips. 

She choked and swallowed, and, as if by -magic, lay still 
in his arms. Very tenderly he laid her back on the bed. 

“ She will sleep now, Zara," he said. “ Let us go." 

They descended the stairs. Down below, the man laid 
his hands on his wife's shoulders and looked solemnly into 
her face. 

" Watch her, Zara," he said, “ for she is mad, and the 
very first opportunity she will make her escape and seek 
out Sir Jasper Kingsland; and that is the very last thing 
1 want. So watch your mother well." 


CHAPTEPi IV. 

AN UNINVITED GUEST. 

Sir Jasper Kingsland stood moodily alone, lie was 
in the library, standing by the window — that very window 
through which, one stormy night scarcely a m'onth be- 
fore, he had admitted Achniet the Astrologer. He stood 
there with a face of such dark gloom that all the bright- 
ness of the sunlit April day could not cast one enlivening 
gleam. 


25 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 

And yet the prospect on which he gazed might have 
made luminous the face of any common man, although 
not so blessed as to be its owner. Swelling meadows all 
his own; velvety lawns sloping away to sunlit terraces, 
where gaudy peacocks strutted; long, leafy arcades 
through which the golden sunlight sifted, in amber rain; 
waving trees and dark plantations. Over all the cloudless 
April sky, and far beyond the sparkling, sunny sea. 

But not all the glory of earth and sky could lighten that 
settled cloud of blackest gloom on the wealthy baronet's 
face. He stood there scowling darkly upon It all, so lost 
in his own somber thoughts that he did not hear the library 
door open, nor the soft rustle of a woman's dress as she 
halted on the threshold. 

A fair and stately lady, with a proud, colorless face 
lighted up with pale-blue eyes, and with bauds of pale 
flaxen hair pushed away under a dainty lace cap — a lady 
who looked scarce thirty, although almost ten years older, 
unmistakably handsome, unmistakably proud. It was 
Olivia, Lady Kingsland. 

“Alone, Sjr Jasper!" a musical voice said. “ May I 
come in, or do you prefer solitude and your own thoughts?" 

The sweet voice — soft and low, as a lady's voice should 
be — broke the somber spell that bound him. He wheeled 
round, his dark, moody face lighting up at sight of her, as 
all the glorious morning sunshine never could have lighted 
it. That one radiant look would have told you how he 
loved his wife. 

“ You, Olivia?" he cried, advancing. “ Surely this is 
a surprise!. My dearest, is it quite prudent in you to leave 
your room?" 

He took the slender, white-robed figure in his arms, and 
kissed her as tenderly as a bridegroom of a week might 
have done. Lady Kingsland laughed a soft, tinkling lit- 
tle laugh. 

“ A month is quite long enough to be a prisoner, Jasper, 
even although a prisoner of state. And on my boy's 
christening fete— the son and heir 1 have desired so long 
—ah, surely a weaker mother than 1 might essay to quit 
her room. " 

The moody darkness, like a palpable frown, swept over 
the baronet's face again at her words. 

“ Is he dressed?" he asked. 


26 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


“ He is dressed and asleep, and Lady Helen and Mr. 
Oarlyon, his godmother and godfather, are hovering over 
the crib like twin guardian angels. And Mildred sits 
grande teniie on her cricket, in a speechless trance of de- 
light, and nurse rustles about in her new silk gown and 
white lace cap with an air of importance and self-compla- 
cency almost indescribable. The domestic picture only wants 
papa and mamma to make it complete. ” 

She laughed as she spoke, a little sarcastically; but Sir 
Jasper’s attempt even- to smile was a ghastly failure. 

Lady Kingsland folded both her hands on his shoulder, 
and looked up in his face with anxious, searching eyes. 

What is it?” she asked. 

The baronet laughed uneasily. 

“ What is what?” 

“This gloom, this depression, this dark, mysterious 
moodiness. Jasper, what has changed you of late?” 

” Mysterious moodiness! changed me of late! Nonsense, 
Olivia! 1 don’t know what you mean.” 

Again he strove to laugh, and again it was a wretched 
failure. ' 

Lady Kingsland’s light-blue eyes never left his face. 

“ I think you do, Jasper. Since the night of our boy^'s 
birth you have been another man. What is it?” 

A spasm crossed the baronet’s face; his lips twitched 
convulsively; his face slowly changed to a gray, ashen pal- 
lor. 

“ What is it?” the lady slowly reiterated. “ Surely my 
husband, after all these years, has no secrets from me?’' 

The tender reproach of her tone, of her eyes, stung the 
husband, who loved her, to the quick. 

“ For God’s sake, Olivia, don’t ask me!” he cried, pas- 
sionately. “ It would be sheerest nonsense in your eyes, 
I know. You would but laugh at what half drives me 
mad!”- 

“ Jasper!” 

“ Don’t look at me with that reproachful face, Olivia! 
It is true. You would look upon it as sheerest folly, I 
tell you, and laugh at me for a credulous fool.” 

“ No,” said Lady Kingsland, quietly, and a little coldly. 
“ You know me better. I could never laugh at what gives 
my husband pain.” 

“ Pain! I have lived in torment ever since, and yet — 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


27 


who knows? — it maybe absurdest jugglery. .But he told 
me the past so truly — my very thoughts! And no one 
could know what happened in Spain so many years ago! 
Oh, 1 must believe it — I can not help it — and that belief 
will drive me mad!” 

The outburst was more to himself than to her. He even 
forgot she was there. 

Lady Kingsland stood looking and listening, in pale 
wonder. 

“ I don’t understand a word of this,” she said, slowly. 
“Will you tell me. Sir Jasper, or am I to und*erstancl 
you have secrets your wife may not share?” 

He turned to her, took both her hands, and gazed into 
her pale, patrioian face with a look of passionate pain. 

“My own dear wife,” he said — “my best beloved — 
Heaven knoWvS, if I have one secret from you, I keep it 
that I may save you sorrow. Not one cloud should ever 
..darken the sunshine of your sky, if I had my way. A^ou 
are right — I have a secret — a secret of horror, and dread, 
and dismay — a terrible secret that sears my brain and burns 
my heart! Olivia, my darling, its very horror prevents 
my telling it to you!” 

“ Does it concern our boy?” she asked, quickly. 

“ Yes!” with a groan. “ Now you can understand its 
full terror. It menaces the son I love more than life. 1 
thought to keep it from you; I tried to appear unchanged; 
but it seems I have failed miserably.” 

“ And you will not tell me what this secret is?” 

“ I dare not! 1 would not have you sutler as 1 suffer.” 

“ A moment ago,” said his wife, impatiently, “ you said * 
^ 1 would laugh at it and you. Your terms are inconsistent, 
Sir Jasper.” 

“ Spare me, Olivia! — I scarce know what I say — and do 
not be angry. ” 

She drew her hands coldly and haughtily away from his 
grasp. She was a thoroughly proud woman, and his secrecy 
stung her. 

“lam not angry. Sir Jasper. Keep your secret, if you 
will. 1 was foolish enough to fancy I had right to know 
of any danger that menaces my baby, but it appears 1 was 
mistaken. In half an hour the carriages will start for the 
church. A^ou will find us all in the nursery.” 


THE BAEONET^S BRIDE. 


28 

She was sweeping proudly away in silent anger, but th^ 
baronet strode after her and caught her arm. 

“You ivill know this!’' he said, huskily.' “Olivia, 
Olivia! you are cruel to yourself and to me, but you shall 
liear — part, at least. I warn you, however, you will be no 
happier for knowing.” 

“ Go on,” she said, steadily. 

He turned from her, walked to the window, and kept 
his back to her while he spoke. 

“ You have no faith in fortune-tellers, clairvoyants, 
astrologers, and the like, have you, Olivia?” 

“ Most certainly not!” 

“ Then what I have to say will scarcely trouble you as it 
troubles me — for I believe; and the prediction of an astrolo- 
ger has ruined my peace for the past mont!r.” 

Lady Kingsland lifted her blonde eyebrows and laughed. 

“ Is that all? "The mountain indabor has brought forth 
a mouse. My dear Sir Jasper, how can you be so simply 
credulous?” 

“I knew you would laugh,” said Sir Jasper, moodily; 
“ 1 said so. But laugh if you can. I believe!” 

“Was the prediction very terrible, then?” asked his 
wife, with a smile. “ Pray tell me all about it.” 

“ It was terrible,” her husband replied, sternly. “ The 
living horror it has cast over me might have told you that. 
Listen, Olivia! On that night of our baby boy’s birth, 
after I left you and came here, I stood by this window and 
saw a spectral face gleaming through the glass. It was 
the face "of a man — a belated wayfarer — who adjured me, 
in the Saviour’s name, to let him in.” 

“ Well,” said Lady Kingsland, composedly, “ you let 
him in, I suppose?” 

“ 1 let him in — a strange-looking object, Olivia, like no 
creature 1 ever saw before, with flowing beard and hair 
silver-white — 

“ False, no doubt. ” 

“ He wore a long, disguising cloak and a skull-cap,” 
went on Sir Jasper, heedless of the interruption, “ and his 
face was blanched to a dull dead white. He would have 
looked like a resuscitated corpse, only for a pair of burn- 
ing black eyes.” 

Lady Kingsland shrugged her pretty shoulders. 

“ Quite a startling apparition! % Melodramatic in the ex- 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


2d 

treme! And this singular being — what was he? Clairvoy- 
ant, astrologer, what?" 

“Astrologer — an Eastern astrologer — Achmet by 
name." . 

“ And who, probably, never was further than London 
in his life-time. Aiwell-got-up charlatan, no doubt." 

“ Charlatan he may have been; Englishman he was not. 
His face, his speech, convinced me of that. And, Olivia, 
charlatan or no, he told me my past life as truly as I 
knew it myself." 

Lady Kingsland listened with a quiet smile. 

“ No doubt he has been talking to the good people of 
the village and to the servants in the house." 

“ Neither the people of the village nor the servants of 
the house know aught of what he told me. He lifted the 
veil of the past, and showed me what transpired twenty 
years ago." 

“ Twenty years ago?" 

“ Yes, when I was fresh from Cambridge, and making 
my first tour. Events that occurred in Spain — that no 
one under heaven save myself can know of— -he told me. 
He revealed to me my very thoughts in thatb 3 "-gone time." 

Lady Kingsland knit her solemn brows. 

“ That was strange!" 

“ Olivia, it was astounding — incomprehensible! 1 should 
never have credited one word he said but for that. He 
told me the past as 1 know it myself. Events that trans- 
pired in a far foreign land a score of years ago, known, as 
1 thought, to no creature under heaven, he told me of as 
if they had transpired yesterday. The very thoughts that 
I thought in that by-gone time he revealed as if my heart 
lay open before him. How, then, could I doubt? If he 
could lift the veil of the irrevocable past, why not be able 
to lift the veil of the mysterious future? He took the hour 
of our child's birth and ascended to the battlements, and 
there, alonp with the stars of heaven, he cast his horoscope. 
Olivia, men in all ages have believed in this supernatural 
power of astrology, and I believe as firmly as I believe in 
Heaven." 

Lady Kingsland listened, and that quiet smile of half 
amusement, half contempt never left her lips. 

“And the horoscope proved a horrorsco 2 )e, no doubt," 


30 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


she said, the smile deepening. “ You paid your astrologer 
handsomely, I presume. Sir Jasper?” 

“ I gave him nothing. He would take nothing — not 
even a cup of water. Of his own free will he cast the 
horoscope, and, without reward of any kind, went his 
way when he had done. ” 

“ What did you say the name was?” 

“ Achmet the Astrologer.” 

“ Melodramatic again! And now. Sir Jasper, what 
awful fate betides our boy?” she asked, with that derisive 
smile on her face, and her husband turned moodily away. 

“ Content you, Olivia! Ask me not! You do not be- 
lieve. You would not if I-told you, and /it is better so. 
AVhat the astrologer foretold I shall tell no one.” 

“ The carriage waits, my lady,” a servant said, enter- 
ing. “Lady Helen bade me remind you, my lady, it is 
time to start for church.” 

Lady Kingsland hastily glanced at her watch. 

“ Why, so it is! 1 had nearly forgotten. Come, Sir 
Jasper, and forget your gloom and superstitious fears on 
this happy day.” 

She led him from the room. Baby, in its christening- 
robes, slept in nurse’s arms, and Lady Helen and Mr. Carl- 
yon stood impatiently waiting. 

“ We will certainly be late!” Lady Helen, who was 
godmamma, said, fussily. “ Had we not better depart at 
once. Sir Jasper?” 

“Lam quite at your ladyship’s service. We will not 
delay an instant longer. Proceed, nurse. ” 

Nurse, with her precious burden, went before. Sir Jas- 
per drew Lady Helen’s arm within his own, and Mr. Carl- 
yon followed with little Mildred Kingsland. 

Lady Kingsland watched the carriage out of sight, and 
then went slowly and thoughtfully back to her room. 

“ How extremely foolish and weak of Sir Jasper,” she 
was thinking, “ to pay the slightest attention to the cant- 
ing nonsense of these fortune-telling impostors! If I had 
been in his place 1 would have had him horsewhipped from 
my gates for his pains. I must find out what this terrible 
prediction was and laugh it out of my silly husband’s 
mind.” 

Meantime the carriage rolled down the long avenue, 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


31 


under the majestic copper-beeches, through the lofty gates, 
and along the bright sunlit road leading to the village. 

In stole and surplice, within the village church, the Rev- 
erend Cyrus Green, Rector of Stonehaven, stood by the 
baptismal font, waiting to baptize the heir of all the Kings- 
lands. 

A few loiterers stood around the entrance; a few were 
scattered amoig the pews, staring with wide-open eyes as 
the christening procession passed in. 

Stately and uplifted. Sir Jasper Kingsland strode up the 
aisle, with Lady Helen iipon his arm. No trace of the 
trouble within showed in his pale, set face as he stood a 
little aloof and heard, his son baptized Everard Jasper 
Carew Kingsland. 

The ceremony was over. Nurse took the infant baronet 
again; Lady Helen adjusted her mantle, slightly awry from 
holding baby, and the Reverend Cyrus Green was blandly 
offering his congratulations to the greatest man in the 
parish, when a sudden commotion at the door startled all. 
Some one striving to enter, and some other one refusing 
admission. 

“ Let me in, 1 tell you!” cried a shrill, piercing voice — 
the voice of an angry woman. “ Stand aside, woman! I 
will see Sir Jasper Kingsland!” 

With the last ringing words the intruder burst past the 
pew-opener, and rushed wildly into the church. A weird 
and unearthly figure — like one of Macbeth’s witches — with 
streaming black hair floating over a long, red cloak, and 
two black eyes of flame. All recoiled as the spectral fig- 
ure rushed up like a mad thing and confronted Sir Jasper 
Kingsland. 

“ At last!” she shrilly cried, in a voice that pierced even 
to the gaping listeners without — ” at last. Sir Jasper 
Kingsland! At last we meet again!” 

There was a horrible cry as the baronet started back, 
putting up both hands, with a look of unutterable horror. 

“ Good Godl Zenith!” 

“ Yes, Zenith!” shrieked the woman; “ Zenith, the 
beautiful, once! Zenith, the hag, the crone, the madwom- 
an, now! Look at me well. Sir Jasper Kingsland-^for the 
ruin is your own handiwork!” 

He stood like a man paralyzed — speechless, stunned— 
his face the livid hue ol death, 


32 


THE BARONET S BRIDE. 


The wretched woman stood before him with streaming 
hair, blazing eyes, and uplifted arm, a very incarnate fuiy. 

“ Look at me well!^^ she fiercely shrieked, tossing her 
locks of eld off her fiery face.* “ Am I like the Zenith of 
twenty years ago — young and beautiful, and bright enough 
even for the fastidious Englishman to love? Look at me 
now — ugly and old, wrinkled and wretched, deserted and 
despised — and tell me if I have not greater reason to hate 
you than ever woman had to hate man?^^ 

She tossed her arms aloft with a madwoman’s shriek — 
crying out her words in a long, wild scream. 

“I hate you— 1 hate you! Villain! dastard! , perjured 
wretch! I hate you, and 1 curse you, here in the church 
you call holy! 1 curse you with a ruined woman’s curse, 
and hot and scathing may it burn on your head and on the 
heads of your children’s children!” 

The last horrible scream, the last horrible words, aroused 
the listeners from their petrified trance. The Eeverend 
pyrus Green lifted up his voice in a ringing tone of com- 
mand : 

“ This woman is mad! She is a furious lunatic! Law- 
son! Humphreys! come here and secure her!” 

But before the words were spoken, the madwoman’s eyes 
had fallen upon the nurse and baby. 

“The child! the child!” she cried, with a screech of 
demoniac delight; “ the spawn of the viper is within my 
grasp!” 

One plunge forward and the infant heir was in her arms, 
held high aloft. One second later, and its blood and brains 
would have bespattered the stone floor, but Mr. Carlyon 
sprung forward and wrenched it from her grasp. 

The two men summoned by the clergyman closed upon 
her and held her fast. It took all their united strength 
for a few moments; she struggled with a madwoman’s 
might; her frantic shrieks rang to the roof. Then, sud- 
denly, all ceased, and, foaming and livid, she fell between 
them in an epileptic fit — a dreadful sight to see. 


CIIAPTEE V. 
zenith’s malediction. 

A DEAD pause of blank consternation; the faces around 
a sight to see; horror and wonder in every countenance 


33 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 

— most of all in the countenance of Sir Jasper Kingslancl. 
Dead, and in his coffin, the baronet would never look 
more horribly livid than he did now. 

The clergyman was the first to recover presence of mind 
— the first to speak. 

“ The woman is stark mad/^ he said. “We must see v 
about this. Such violent lunatics must not be allowed to 
go at large. Here, Humphreys, do you and Dawson lift 
her up and carry her to my house. It is the nearest, and 
she can be properly attended to there. 

“ You know her. Sir Jasper, do you not?’’ asked Lady 
Helen, with quick womanly intuition, looking with keen, 
suspicious eyes into the baronet’s ghastly face. 

“ Know her?” Sir Jasper replied, in a stunned sort of 
way — “ know Zenith? Great Heaven! I thought she was 
dead.” 

The Reverend Cyrus Green and Lady Helen exchanged 
glances. Mr. Carlyon looked in sharp surprise at the 
speakeiv 

“ Then she is not mad, after all! I thought she mistook 
you for some one else. If you know her, you have the best 
right to deal with her. Shall these men take her to Kings- 
land Court?” 

“Hot for ten thousand worlds!” Sir Jasper cried, im- 
petuously. “ The woman is nothing — less than nothing — 
to me. 1 knew her once, years ago. I thought her dead 
and buried; hence the shock her' sudden entrance gave 
me. A lunatic asylum is the proper place for such as she. 
Let Mr. Green send her there, and the sooner the better.” 

He turned away from the sight upon the floor; but 
though he strove to speak carelessly, his face was bloodless 
as the face of a corpse. 

The Reverend Cyrus Green looked with grave, suspicious 
eyes for a moment at the leaden face of the speaker. 

“ There is wrong and mystery about this,” he thought 
— “ a dark mystery of guilt. This woman is mad, but her 
wrongs have driven her mad, and you. Sir Jasper Kings- 
land, are her wronger.” 

“It shall be as you say. Sir Jasper,” he said, aloud; 
“ that is, if I find this poor creature has no friends. Are 
you aware whether she has any?” 

“I tell you I know nothing of her!” the baronet cried, 

2 


I 


84: THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 

with fierce impatience. “ What should I know of such a 
wretch as that?’’ 

“ More than you dare tell, Sir Jasper Kingsland!” cried 
a high, ringing* voice, as a young woman rushed impetu- 
ously into the church and up the aisle. ‘‘ Coward and liar! 
False, perjured wretch! You are too white-livered a hound 
even to tell the truth ! What should you know of such a 
wretch as that, forsooth! Double-dyed traitor and dastard! 
Look me in the face, if you dare, and tell me you don ’t 
know her!” 

Everyone shrunk in terror and dismay; Sir Jasper stood 
as a man might stand suddenly struck by lightning. And 
if looks were lightning, the blazing eyes of the young 
woman might have blasted him where he stood. A tall 
and handsome young woman, with black eyes of fire, 
streaming, raven hair, and a brown gypsy face. 

“ Who are you, in mercy’s name?” cried the Reverend 
Cyrus Green. 

The great black eyes turned with hashing quickness 
upon him. 

“lam the daughter of this wretch, as your baronet 
yonder is pleased to call my mad mother. Yes, Mr. Green, 
she is my mother. If you want to know who my father is, 
you had better ask Sir Jasper Kingsland!” 

“ It is false !’^ the baronet cried, the dead white of in- 
tense terror changing suddenly to rushing crimson. “I 
know nothing of you or your father. I never set eyes on 
you before.” 

“ Wait, wait, wait!’^ the Reverend Cyrus Green cried, 
imploringly. “For Heaven.’s sake, young woman, don’t 
make a scene before all these gaping listeners. We will 
have your mother conveyed into the vestry until she re- 
covers; and if she ever recovers, no time is to be lost in at- 
tending to her. Sir Jasper, 1 think the child had better 
be sent home immediately. My lady will wonder at the 
delay.” 

A faint wail from the infant lying in the nurse’s arms 
seconded the suggestion. That feeble cry and the mention 
of his wife acted as a magic spell upon tlie baronet. 

“ Your mad intruders have startled us into forgetting 
everything else. Proceed, nurse. Lady Helen, take my 
arm. Mr. Carlyon, see to Mildred. The child looks 
frightened to death, and little wonder!” 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


35 


“Little, indeed!” sighed Lady Helen. “1 shall not 
recover from the shock for a month. It was like a scene 
in a melodrama — like a chapter of a sensation novel. And 
you know that dreadful creature. Sir Jasper?” 

“ I used to know her,” the baronet said, with emphasis, 
“ so many years ago that 1 had almost forgotten she ever 
existed. She was always more or less mad, 1 fancy, and it 
seems hereditary. Her daughter — if daughter she be — 
seems as distraught as her mother.” 

“ And her name, Sir Jasper? You called her by some 
name, 1 think.” 

“ Zenith, I suppose. To tell the truth. Lady Helen,” 
trying to laugh carelessly, “ the woman is neither more nor 
less than a gypsy fortune-teller crazed by a villainous life 
and villainous liquor. But, for the sake of the days gone 
by, when she was young and pretty and told my fortune, 
I think I will go back and see what Mr. Green intends do- 
ing with her. Such crazy vagrants should not be allowed 
to go' at large. ” 

The light tone was a ghastly failure, and the smile but 
a death’s-head grin. He placed Lady Helen in the car- 
riage — Mr. Carlyon assisted the nurse and little Mildred. 
Then Sir Jasper gave the order, “ Home,” and the 
stately carriage of the Kingslands, with its emblazoned 
crest, whirled away in a cloud of dust. For an instant he 
stood looking after it. The smile faded, and his face black- 
ened with a bitter, vindictive scowl. 

“ Curses on it!’^ he muttered between set teeth. “ After 
all these years, are those dead doings to be flung in my 
face? I thought her dead and gone; and lol in the hour 
of my triumph she rises as if from the grave to confound 
me. Her daughter, too! I never knew she had a child! 
Good heavens! how these wild oats we sow in youth flour- 
ish and multiply with their bitter, bad fruit! I sowed 
mine broadcast, and a sweet harvest home 1 am likely to 
have!” 

He turned and strode into the vestry. On the floor the 
miserable woman lay, her eyes closed, her jaw fallen — the 
upturned face awfully corpse-like in the garish sunshine. 
By her side, supporting her head, the younger woman knelt, 
^ holding a glass of water to her lips. The Reverend Cyrus 
Green stood gravely looking on. 


36 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

“ Is she dead?” Sir Jasper asked, in a hard, strident 
voice. 

It was to the clergyman he spoke, but the girl looked 
fiercely up, her .black eyes glittering, her tones like a ser- 
pent’s hiss. 

“Not dead. Sir Jasper Kingsland! No thanks to you 
for it! Murderer — as much a murderer as if you had cut 
her throat — look on her, and be proud of the ruin you have 
wrought!” 

“ Silence, woman!” Mr. Green ordered, imperiously. 
“We will have none of your mad recriminations here. She 
is not dead. Sir Jasper, but she is dying, I think. This 
young woman wishes to remove her — whither, I know not 
— but it is simply impossible. That unfortunate creature 
will not be alive when to-morrow dawns.” 

“ What do you propose doing with her?” the baronet 
asked, steadily. 

“ We will convey her to the sexton’s house — it is very 
near. I have sent Dawson for a stretcher; he and Humph- 
reys will carry her. This young woman declines to give 
her name, or tell who she is, or where she lives.” 

“ Where I live is no affair of yours, if I can not take my 
mother there,” the young woman answered, sullenly. 
“ Who I am, you know. I told you I am this woman’s 
daughter. ” 

“ And a gypsy, I take it?” said Mr. Green. 

“You guess well, sir, but only half the truth. Half 
gypsy I am, and half gentlewoman. A mongrel, I sup- 
pose, that makes; and yet it is well to have good blood in 
one’s veins, even on the father’s side.” 

There was a sneering emphasis in her words, and the 
glittering, snaky black eyes gleamed like daggers on the 
baronet’s face. 

But that proud face was set and rigid as stone now. He 
returned her look with a haughty stare. 

“ It is a pity the whipping-post has been abolished,” he 
said, harshly. “ Your impertinence makes you a fit subject 
for it, mistress! Take care we don’t commit you to prison 
as a public vagrant, and teach that tongue of yours a lit- 
tle civility when addressing your betters.” 

“ My betters!” the girl hissed, in a fierce, sibilant whis- 
per. “ Why, yes, I suppose a daughter should look upon 
a father in that light. As to the whipping-post and prison. 


THE EAKONET'S BBIDE. 


37 


try it at your peril! Try it, if you dare. Sir Jasper Kiugs- 
land!’' 

She rose up and eonf routed him until he quailed. 

Before he could speak the door opened, and Dawson en- 
tered with the stretcher. 

“ Lay her upon it and remove her at once,^^ the rector 
said, very glad of the interruption. “ Here, Humphreys, 
this side. Gently, my men—gently. Be very careful on 
the way.^^ 

The two men placed the seemingly lifeless form of Zenith 
on the stretcher and bore her carefully away. 

The daughter Zara followed, her eyes never quitting 
that rigid face. 

“ She will not live until to-morrow morning/^ the rec-^^ 
tor said; “ and it is better so, 2)oor soul! She is evidently 
hopelessly insane. 

And the daughter appears but little better. By the 
way, Mr. Green, Lady Kingsland desires me to fetch you 
back to dinner. 

The rector bowed. 

“ Her ladyship is very good. Has your carriage gone? 
I will order out the pony-phaeton, if you like.^^ 

Ten minutes later the two gentlemen were bowling along 
the pleasant country road leading to the Court. It was a 
very silent drive, for the baronet sat moodily staring at 
vacancy, his hat pulled over his brow, his mouth set in 
hard, wordless pain. 

“ They will tell Olivia,'^ he was thinking, gloomily. 
“ What will she say to all this?^’ 

But his fears seemed groundless. Lady Kingsland 
treated the matter with cool indilference. To be sure, she 
had not heard quite all. A madwoman had burst into the 
church, had terrified Lady Helen pretty nearly to death 
with her crazy language, and had tried to tear away the 
baby. That was the discreet story my lady heard, and 
which she was disposed to treat with calm surprise. Baby 
was safe, and it had ended in nothing; the madwoman 
was being properly cared for. Lady Kingsland quietly dis- 
missed the little incident altogether before the end of din- 
ner. 

The hours of the evening wore on — very long hours to 
the lord of Kingsland Court, seated at the head of his 


38 


THE BAROK’ET’S BRIDE. 


table, dispensing his hospitalities and trying to listen to 
the long stories of Mr. Carlyon and the rector. 

It was worse in the drawing-room, with the lights and 
the music, and his stately wife at the piano, and Lady 
Helen at his side, prattling with little Mildred over a pile 
of engravings. All the time, in a half-distracted sort of 
way, his thoughts were wandering to the sexton^s cottage 
and the woman dying therein — the woman he had thought 
dead years ago — dying there in desolation and misery — and 
here the hours seemed strung on roses. And once he had 
loved Zenith. 

It was all over at last. The guests were gone, the baby 
baronet slept in his crib, and Lady Kingsland had gone to 
her chamber. But Sir Jasper lingered still — wandering 
up and down the long drawing-room like a restless ghost. 

A sweet-voiced clock on the mantel chimed twelve. Ere 
its last chime had sounded a sleepy valet stood in the door- 
way. 

“ A messenger for you. Sir Jasper — sent by the Reverend 
Mr. Green. Here — come in.^^ 

Thus invoked, Mr. Dawson entered, pulling his forelock. 

“ Parson, he sent me, zur. She be a-doying, she be.'^ 

He knew instantly who the man meant. ' He had ex- 
pected and waited for this. 

“ And she wishes to see me?’^ 

“ She calls for you all the time, zur. She be a-doying 
uncommon hard. Parson bid me come and tell ^ee. 

“ Very well, my man,^^ the baronet said. “ That will 
do. I will go at once. Thomas, order my horse, and 
fetch my riding-cloak and gloves. 

The valet stared in astonishment, but went to obey. It 
was something altogether without precedent, this queer 
proceeding on the part of his master, and, taken in con- 
nection with that other odd event in church, looked re- 
markably suspicious. 

The night was dark and starless, and the wind blew raw 
and bleak as the baronet dashed down the avenue and^out 
into the high-road. He almost wondered at himself for 
complying with the dying woman^s desire, but some in- 
ward impulse quite beyond his control seemed driving him 
on. 

He rode rapidly, and a quarter of an hour brought him 
to the sexton’s cottage, A feeble light glimmered from the 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 39 

window” out into the pitch blackness of the night. A mo- 
ment later and he stood within, in the presence of the dy- 
ing. 

The Reverend Cyrus Green sat by the table, a Bible in 
his hand. Kneeling by the bedside, her face ghastly white, 
her burning black eyes dry and tearless, was the young 
woman. And like a dead woman already, stretched on the 
bed, lay Zenith. 

But she was not dead. At the sound of the opening 
door, at the sound of his entrance, she opened her eyes, 
dulling fast in death, and fixed them with a hungry glare 
on 8ir Jasper. 

“ I knew you would come,^^ she said, in a husky whis- 
per. “ You dare not stay away! The spirit of the d 3 dng 
Zenith drove you here in spite of yourself. Come nearer 
— nearer! Sir Jasper Kingsland, don’t hover aloof. Once 
you could never be near enough. Ah, 1 was young and 
fair then! I’m old and ugly now. Come nearer, for I 
can not speak aloud, and listen. Do you know wdiy I have 
sent for you?’’ 

He had approached the bedside. She caught his hand 
and held it in a vise-like clutch, her fierce eyes burning 
upon his face. 

“No,” he said, recoiling. 

“ To give you my dying malediction — to curse you with 
my latest breath! I hate you, Sir Jasper Kingsland, falsest 
of all mankind! and if the dead can return and torment 
the living, then do you beware of me!” 

She spoke in panting gasps, the death-rattle sounding in 
her skinny throat. Shocked and scandalized, the rector 
interposed: 

“ My good woman, don’t — for pity’s sake, don’t say such 
horrible things!” 

But she never heeded him. The glazing eyes glared 
with tigerish hate upon the man beside her, even through 
the films of death. 

“ I hate you!” she said, with a last effort. “ 1 die hat- 
ing you, and I curse you with a dying woman’s curse! May 
your life be a life of torment and misery and remorse! 
May your son’s life be blighted and ruined! May he be- 
come an outcast among men! May sin and shame follow 
him forever, and all of his abhorred race!” 

Her voice died away. She glared helplessly up from the 


40 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

pillow, unable to speak. A deep, stern, terrible “ Amen!” 
came from her daughter’s lips; then, with a spasm, she 
half leaped from the bed, and fell back with a gurgling 
cry — dead! 

“ She is gone!” said the rector, with a shudder. 
“ Heaven have mercy on her sinful soul!” 

The baronet staggered back from the bed, his face ut- 
terly livid. 

“ I never saw a more horrible sight!” continued the 
Reverend Cyrus. “ 1 never heard such horrible words! 
No wonder it has unmanned you. Sir. Jasper. Pray sit 
down and drink this. ” _ 

He held out a glass of water. Sir J asper seized and 
drank it, his brain reeling, for a moment or two quite un- 
able to stand. 

With stoical calm, Zara had arisen and closed the dead 
woman’s eyes, folded the hands, straightened the stiffening 
limbs, and composed the humble covering. She had no 
tears, she uttered no cry — her face was stern as stone. 

“ Better stay in this ghastly place no longer, Sir Jasper,” 
the rector suggested. “You look completely overcome. 
I will see that everything is properly done. \^e will bury 
her to-morrow. ” 

As a man walks in a dreadful dream, Sir Jasper arose, 
quitted the room, mounted his horse, and rode away. 

One dark, menacing glance Zara shot after him ; then 
she sat stonily down by her dead. All that night, all next 
day, Zara kept her post, neither eating, nor drinking, nor 
sleeping. Dry and tearless, the burning black eyes fixed 
themselves on the dead face, and never left it. 

When they put the dead woman in the rude board coffin, 
she offered no resistance. Calmly she watched them screw 
the lid down— calmly she saw them raise it on their shoul- 
ders and bear it away. Without a word or tear she arose, 
folded her cloak about her, and followed them to the 
church-yard. 

It was late in the afternoon when the interment was over 
— a bleak and gusty afternoon. A sky of lead hung low 
over a black earth, and the chill blast shuddered ghostly 
through the trees. 

One by one the stragglers departed, and Zara was left 
alone by the new-made grave. No, not quite alone, for 
through the bleak twilight fluttered the tall, dark figure of 


THE BARONET^S BBIDE. 41 

a man toward her. She lifted her gloomy eyes and recog- 
nized him. 

“you come. Sir Jasper Kingsland,” she said, slowly, 
“ to see the last of your work. You come to gloat over 
your dead victim, and exult that she is out of your way. 
But I tell you to beware! Zenith in her grave will be a 
thousand times more terrible to you than Zenith ever was 
alive 

The baronet looked at her with a darkly troubled face. 

“ Why do you hate me so?^^ he said. “ Whatever wrong 
1 did her, I never wronged you.'’^ 

‘ ‘ You have done me deadly wrong ! My mother^s wrongs 
are mine, and here, by her grave, I vow vengeance on you 
and yours! Her dying legacy to me was her hatred of you, 
and I will pay the old debt with double interest, my noble, 
haughty, titled father!’’ 

She turned with the last words and sped away like an 
evil spirit, vanishing in the gloom among the graves. 


CHAPTER VI. 

TWO DYIHO BEQUESTS. 

The midsummer night was sultry and still. The dark- 
ness was like the darkness of Egypt, lighted every now and 
then by a vivid flash of lightning, from what quarter of 
the heavens no man knew. The inky sky was invisible — 
no breath of air stirred the terrible calm. The midsum- 
mer night was full of dark and deadly menace. 

Hours ago a fierce and wrathful sunset had burned itself 
out on a brassy sky. The sun, a lurid ball of fire, had 
sunk in billows of blood-red cloud, and pitch blackness 
had fallen upon earth and sky and sea. Everything above 
and below breathed of speedy and awful tempest, but the 
midnight was drawing near, and the storm had not yet 
burst. 

And on this black June night Sir Jasper Kingsland lay 
on his stately bed, dying. 

The lofty chamber was but dimly lighted. It was a 
grand, vast room, paneled in black oak, hung with somber 
draperies, and carpeted in rich dark Brussels. 

Three wax candles made white spots of light in the sol- 
emn gloom; a wood-fire burned, or rather smoldered, in 
the wide hearth, for the vast rooms were chilly even in 


42 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


midsummer; but neither fire-light nor candle-light could 
illumine the ghostly depths of the chamber. Shadows 
crouched like evil things in the dusky corners, and round 
the bed, only darker shadows among the rest, knelt the 
dying man's family — wife and daughter and son. And 
hovering aloof, with pale, anxious faces, stood the rector, 
the Reverend Cyrus Green, and Dr. Parker Godroy, of the 
village. 

The last hope was over, the last prayer had been said, 
the last faint breaths fiuttered between the dying lips. 
With the tide going out on the shore below, the baronet's 
life was ebbing. 

“ Olivia!" 

Lady Kingsland, kneeling in tearless grief by her hus- 
band's side, bent over him to catch the faint whisper. 

“ My dearest, I am here. What is it?" 

“ Where is Everard?" 

Everard Kingsland, a fair-haired, blue-eyed, handsome 
boy, lifted his head from the opposite side. It was a hand- 
some, high-bred face— the ancestral face of all the Kings- 
lands — that of this twelve-year-old boy. 

“Here, papa!" ' 

The weak head turned slowly: the eyes, dulling in death, 
fixed themselves on that fair, youthful face in a gaze of 
deathless love. 

“ My boy! my boy! whom I have loved so well— whom 
I have shielded so tenderly. My precious, only son, 1 must 
leave you at last!" 

The boy stifled a sob as he bent and kissed the ice-cold 
face. Young as he was, he had the gravity and self-re- 
pression of manhood already. 

“ I have loved you better than mj own life," the faint, 
whispering voice went on. “1 would have died to save 
you an hour of pain. 1 have kept the one secret of my 
life well — a secret that has blighted it before its time — but 
1 can not face the dread unknown and bear my secret with 
me. On my death-bed 1 must tell all, and my darling boy 
must bear the blow." 

Everard Kingsland listened to his father's huskily mur- 
mured words in boyish wonderment. What secret was he 
talking of? He glanced across at his mother, and to his 
increased surprise saw her pale cheeks suddenly flushed 
and her calm eyes kindling. 


THE BAROKET’s BRIDE. 


43 


“ No living soul lias ever heard from me what 1 must 
tell you to-night, my Everard — not even your mother. 
Do not leave me, Olivia. You, too, must know all, that 
you may guard your son — that you may pity and forgive 
me. Per&ps I have erred in keeping any secret from 
you, but the truth was too horrible to tell. There have 
been times when the thought of it nearly drove me mad. 
How, then, could I tell the wife I loved — the son I idolized 
— this cruel and shameful thing?^^ 

The glazing eyes rolled in piteous appeal from one to 
the other. The youthful Everard looked simply bewil- 
dered — Lady Kingsland excited, expectant, flushed. 

She gently wiped the clammy brow and held a reviving 
cordial to the livid lips. 

“ My dearest, do not agitate yourself,^' she said. “We 
will listen to all you have to say> and love you none the 
less, let it be what it will.^^ 

“ My own dear wife! half the secret you know already. 
You remember the astrologer — the prediction?’^ 

“Surely.* You have never been the same man since 
that fatal night. It is of the prediction you would speak?” 

“ It is. 1 must tell my son. 1 must warn him of the 
unutterable horror to come. Oh, my boy! my boy! what 
will become of you when you learn your horrible doom?” 

“Papa,” the lad said, softly, but growing very white, 
“ I don’t understand — what horror? what doom? Tell 
me, and see how I will bear it. I am a Kingsland, you 
know, and the son of a daring race.” 

“ That is my brave boy! Send them out of the room, 
Olivia — priest, doctor, Mildred, and all — then come close 
to me, close, close, for my voice is failing — and listen.” 

Lady Kingsland arose — fair and stately still as twelve 
years before, and eminently self-sustained in this trying 
hour. In half a minute she had turned out rector, phy- 
sician, and daughter, and knelt again by that bed of death. 
The lightning glittered athwart the gloom; the warning 
moan of the coming storm, heard in the mighty voice of 
the sea, sounded terribly distinct in that silent room, and, 
grimly waiting. Death stood in their midst. 

“ The first part of my story, Olivia,” began the dying 
man, “ belongs to you. Years before I knew you, when 1 
was a young, hot-headed, rashly impulsive boy, traveling 
in Spain, 1 fell in with a gang of wandering gypsies. I 


44 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


had beeu robbed and wounded by mountain brigands; 
these gypsies found me, took me to their tents, cared for 
me, cured me. But long after I was well I lingered with 
them, for the fairest thing the sun shone on was my black- 
eyed nurse. Zenith. We were both so young and so fiery- 
blooded, so— Ah! what. need to go oyer the old, old 
grounds? There was one hour of mad, brief bliss, parting 
and forgetfulness. I forgot. . Life was a long, idle suni- 
mer holiday to me. But she never forgot — :never forgave! 
You remember the woman, . Olivia, who burst into the 
church on the day of our boy’s christening — the wQm.an 
who died in the sexton’s house? That woman was Zenith 
— old and withered, and maddened by her wrongs— that 
woman who died cursing me and mine. A girl, dark and 
fierce, and terrible as herself, stood by her to the last, 
lingered at her grave to vow deathless revenge — her daugh- 
ter and mine!” 

The faint voice ceased an instant. Lady Kingsland had 
drawn back into the shadow of the curtains, and her face 
could not be seen. The fluttering spirit rallied, and re- 
sumed : 

“ 1 have reason to know that daughter was married. 1 
have reason to know she had a child— whether boy or girl 
I can not, tell. To that child the inheritance of hatred 
and revenge will fall; that child, some inward prescience 
tells me, will wreak deep and awful vengeance for the 
past. Beware of. the grandchild of Zenith, the gypsy — be- 
ware, Olivia, for yourself and your son!” 

There was a pause; then — 

“ Is this all?” Olivia said, in a constrained, hard voice. 

“ All I have to say to you— the rest is for Everard. My 
son, on the night of your birth an Eastern astrologer came 
to this house and cast your horoscope. He gave that 
horoscope to me at day-dawn and departed, and from that 
hour to this 1 have neither seen nor heard of him. Before 
reading your future in the stars he looked into my palm 
and told me the past— tpld me the story of Zenith and her 
wrongs— told me what no one under heaven but myself 
knew. My boy, the revelation of that night has blighted 
my life— broken my heart! The unutterable Jhorror of 
your future has brought my gray hairs in sorrow to the 
grave. Oh, my son! what will become of you when I am 
gone?” 


THE baronet’s bride. 


45 


The boy looked in blank consterniition iit the ghastly, 
convulsed face. The dying voice was almost inaudible 
now. The breath came in panting gasps. The clock was 
near the stroke of midnight. The tide was all but at its 
lowest ebb. 

“ What was it, papa?’' the lad asked. “ What has the 
future in store for me?” 

A convulsive spasm distorted the livid face; the eye- 
balls rolled, the death-rattle sounded. With a smothered 
cry of terror Lady Kingsland lifted the agonized head in 
her arms. 

“ Quick, Jasper — the horoscope! Where?” 

“ My safe — study — secret spring — at back! Oh, God, 
have mercy — ” 

The clock struck sharply — twelve. A vivid blaze of 
lambent lightning lighted the room; the awful death-rat- 
tle sounded once more. 

“ Beware of Zenith’s grandchild!” 

He spoke the words aloud,' clear and distinct, and never 
spoke again. With that warning on his lips, his head fell 
heavily back; he turned his glazed eyes on the son he 
loved, and so— died. 

Many miles away from Kingsland Court that same 
sultry, o^ipressive midsummer night a little third-rate 
theater on the Surrey side of London was crowded to over- 
flowing. There was a grand spectacular drama, full of 
transformation scenes, fairies, demons, spirits of air. Are, 
and water; a brazen orchestra blowing forth, and steam, 
and orange-peel, and suffocation generally. 

Foremost among all the fairies and nymphs, noted for 
the shortness of her filmy skirts, the supple beauty of her 
shapely limbs, her incomparable' dancing, and her dark, 
bright beauty, flashed La Sylphine before the foot-lights. 

The best danse^ise in the kingdom, and the prettiest, 
and invested with a magic halo of romance. La JSylphine 
shone like a meteor among lesser stars, and brought down 
thunders of applause every time she appeared. 

The little feet twinkled and flashed; the long, dark 
waves of hair floated in a shining banner behind her to the 
* ' ■’ " ' \ face — the eyes ablaze like 



Sylphine was the loveliest 


thing, that hot June night, the gas-light shone on! 


46 THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 

The fairy spectacle was over — the green drop-curtain 
fell. La Sylphine had smiled and dipped and ki^ed 
hands to thundering bravos for the last time that night, 
and now, behind the scenes, was rapidly exchanging the 
spangles and gossamer of fairydom for the shabby and 
faded merino shawl and dingy straw hat of every-day life. 

“You danced better than ever to-night. Miss Monti, 
a tall demon in tail and horns said, sauntering up to her. 
“Them there pretty feet of yourhi will make your fort- 
une yet, and beat Fanny Fllsler!’^ 

“ Not to mention her pretty face,^^ said a brother fiend, 
removing his horrible mask. “ Her fortune's made 
already, if she's a mind to take it. There's a gay young- 
city swell a-waiting at the wings to see you home. Miss 
Monti." 

La Sylphine laughed. 

“ Is it Maynard, the banker's son?" she asked. 

The second demon nodded. 

“ Then 1 must escape by the side entrance. When he 
gets tired waiting, Mr. Smithers, give him La Sylphine 's 
compliments, and let him go." 

She laughed again, soft and silvery, glided past the 
demons down a dark and winding staircase, and out into 
the noisy, lighted street. 

The girl paused an instant under a street-lamp — she 
was only a girl — fifteen or sixteen at most, though very 
tall, with a bright, 'fearless, precocious look — then draw- 
ing her shawl closely round her slender figure, she flitted 
rapidly away. 

The innumerable city clocks tolled heavily — eleven. 
The night was pitch-dark; the sheet-lightning blazed across 
the blackness, and now and then a big drop fell. Still the 
girl sped on, swiftly, surely, looking neither to the right 
nor left, until she reached her destination. 

It was the poorest and vilest quarter of 4he great city — 
among reeking smells, and horrible sounds, and disgusting 
sights. The house she entered was tottering to decay — a 
dreadful den by day and by night, thronged with the very 
scum and offal of the London streets. Up and up a long 
stair-way she flew, paused at a door on the third landing, 
opened it, and went in. 

It was a miserable room — all one could have expected 
from the street and the house. There was a black grate, 


THE baronet’s bride. 


47 


one or two broken chairs, a battered table, and a wretched 
bed in the corner. On the bed a woman — the ghastly 
skeleton of a woman — lay dying. A fluttering tallow can- 
dle, flaming wildly, lighted the miserable scene. 

The opening of the door and the entrance of La Sylphine 
aroused the woman from the stupor into which she had 
fallen — the stupor that precedes death. She opened her 
spectral eyes and looked eagerly around. 

“ My Sunbeam! is it thou?” 

“It is I, mother — at last. I could come no sooner. 
The ballet was very long to-night.” 

The weird eyes of the sick woman lighted up with a 
sudden flame. 

“And my Sunbeam was bravoed, and encored, and 
crowned with flowers, and admired beyond all, was she 
not?” 

“ Yes, mother; but never mind that. How are you to- 
night?” 

“ Dying, my own.”. 

The dansmse fell on her knees with a shrill, sharp cry. 

“No, mother — no, no! Not dying! Very ill, very 
weak, very low, but not dying. Oh/ not dying!” 

“ Dying, my daughter!” the sick woman said, solemn- 
ly. “ I count my life by minutes now; I heard the city 
clocks strike eleven; I counted the strokes, for, my Sun- 
beam, it is the last' hour poor Zara, thy mother, will ever 
hear on earth.” 

The ballet-dancer covered her face, with a low, despair- 
ing cry. The dying mother, with a painful effort, lifted 
her own skeleton hand and removed those of the girl. 

“ Weep not, but listen, carissima, I have much to' say 
to thee before I go; 1 feared to die before you came; and 
even in my grave I could not rest with the words 1 must 
say unsaid. I have a legacy to leave thee, my daughter. ” 

“ A legacy?” . 

The girl opened her great black eyes in wide surprise. 

“ Even so. Not of lands/or houses, or gold, or honors, 
but something a thousand-fold greater — an inheritance of 
hatred and revenge!” 

“ My mother!” 

“ Listen to me, my daughter, and my dying malediction 
be upon thee if thou fulfillest not the trust. Thou hast 
heard the name of Kingsland?” 


48 


THE BARONET'S BRIDE. 


Jjii Sylpliiiio’s face darkened vindictively. 

“ Ay, my mother — often; from my father ere he died — 
from thee, since. Was it not his last command to me— 
this hatred of their evil race? Did I not promise him on 
his death-bed, four years ago? Does my mother think I 
forget?^’ 

“ That is my brave daughter. You know the cruel 
story of treachery and wrong done thy grandmother. 
Zenith — you know the prediction your father made to my 
father. Sir Jasper Kingsland, on the night of his son’s 
birth. Be it thine, my brave daughter, to see that pre- 
diction fulfilled.” 

A slight shiver shook her slender frame; her dark face 
blanched. 

“ You ask a terrible thing, my mother,” she said, slow- 
ly; “ but 1 can refuse you nothing, and 1 abhor them all. 

T promise — the prediction shall be fulfilled!” 

“ My own! my own! That son is a boy of twelve now 
— be it yours to find him, and work the retribution of the 
gods. Your grandmother, your father, your mother, look 
to you from their graves for vengeance. Woe to you if 
you fail!” 

“ I shall not fail!” the girl said, solemnly. “ I can die, 
but I can not break a promise. Vengeance shall fall, 
fierce and terrible, upon the heir of Kingsland, and mine 
shall be the hand to inflict it. 1 swear it by your death- 
bed, mother, and I will keep my oath!” 

The mother pressed her hand; she was too far gone for 
words. The film of death was in her eyes, its gray shadow 
on her face. She strove to speak — only a husky rattle 
came; there was a quick, dreadful convulsion from head 
to foot, then an awful calm. 

Within the same hour, with miles between them. Sir 
Jasper Kingsland and Zara, his outcast daughter, died. 

The dawn of another day crept silently over the Devon 
hill-tops as Lady Kingsland arose from her husband’s 
death-bed — a sullen day of wet and gloom; a leaden sky, 
a drenched earth; no sound to be heard save the ceaseless 
drip, drip of the melancholy rain. 

White, and stark, and rigid, the late lord of Kingsland 
Court lay in the awful majesty of death. 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


49 


The doctor, the rector, the nurse, sat, pale and somber 
watchers, in the death-room. More than an hour before 
the youthful baronet had been sent to his room, worn out 
with his night^s watching. 

It was the Reverend Cyrus Green who urged my lady 
now to follow him. 

“ You look utterly exhausted, my dear Lady Kings- 
land,^^ he said. “ Pray retire and endeavor to sleep. You 
are not able to endure such fatigue,^' 

The lady rose wearily, very, very pale, but tearless. 

“lam worn out,^^ she said, “ I believe I will lie down, 
but 1 feel as though I should never sJeep again. 

She quitted the room, but not to seek her own. Outside 
the death-chamber she paused an instant, and her haggard 
face lighted suddenly up, as a vase might with a light 
within. 

“ Now is my time,^^ she said, under her breath. “ A 
few hours more and it may be too late. His safe, he said 
— the secret spring!^’ 

She flitted away, pallid and guilty looking, into Sir Jas- 
23er^s study. It was deserted, of course, and there in the 
corner stood the grim iron safe. Lady Kingsland locked 
the door, drew a bunch of keys from her pocket, and ap- 
proached it. 

“It is well I took the keys from under the pillow be- 
fore those curious gapers came in. Now for the secrets of 
the dead! No for tune- telling jugglery shall blight my 
darling boy^s life while I can help it. He is as super- 
stitious as his father. 

With considerable difiiculty she opened the safe, pulled 
forth drawer after drawer, until the grim iron back was 
exposed. 

“ The secret spring is here,^^ she muttered. “ Surely, 
surely, 1 can And it. 

For many minutes she searched in vain; then her glance 
fell on a tiny steel knob inserted in a corner. She pressed 
this with all her might, confident of success. 

Nor was she deceived; the knob moved, the iron slid 
slowly back, disclosing a tiny hidden drawer in what ap- 
peared the solid frame. 

Lady Kingsland barely repressed a cry as she saw the 
paper, and by its side something wraj^ped in silver tissue. 
Greedily she snatched both out, pressed back the knob. 


60 THE BAIJONET^S BRIDE. 

locked the safe, stole out of the study and up to her o\vu 
room. 

Panting with her haste, my lady sunk into a seat, with 
her treasures eagerly clutched. A moment recovered her; 
then she took up the little parcel wrapped in the silver 
paper. 

“ He said nothing of this,’^ she thought. “ What can 
it be?’^ 

She tore off the wrapping. As it fell to the floor, a 
long tress of silky black hair fell with it, and she held in 
her hand a miniature painted on ivory. A girlish face of 
exquisite beauty, dusky as the face of an Indian queen, 
looked up at her, fresh and bright as thirty years before. 
1^0 need to look at the words on the reverse — “ My peer- 
less Zenith — to know who it was; the wife's jealousy told 
her at the first glance. 

“ And all these years he has kept this," she said, be- 
tween her set teeth, “while he pretended he loved only 
me! ‘ My peerless Zenith!' Yes, she is beautiful as the 
fabled houris of the Mussulman's paradise. Well, I will 
it in my turn. Who knows what end it may serve 

yet?'f ^ ' 

Who, indeed? She'^icked up""the *tfe5s''oi blue-black 
hair, and enveloped all in the silver paper once more. 
Then she lifted the folded document, and looked darkly at 
the superscription: 

“ Horoscope of the Heir of Kingsland." 

“ Which the heir of Eingsland shall never see," she 
said, grimly unfolding it. “ Now for this mighty secret." 

She just glanced at the mystic symbols, the cabalistic 
signs and figures, and turned to the other side. There, 
beautifully written, in long, clear letters, she saw her son's 
fate. 

The morning wore on — noon came; the house was as 
still as a tomb. Rosine, my lady's maid, with a cup of tea, 
ventured to tap at her ladyship's door. There was no 
response. 

“ She sleeps," thought Rosine, and turned the handle. 

But at the threshold she paused in wild alarm. No, 
my lady did not sleep. She sat in her chair, upright and 
ghastly as a galvanized corpse, a written paper closely 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. ol 

clutched in her hand, and a look of white horroi frozen on 
her face. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AFTER TEN" YEARS. 

“ I HAVE said it, and 1 mean it; they ought to know mo 
well enough by this time, Godsoe. Pd transport every 
man of them, the poaching scoundrels, if 1 could! Tell 
that villain Dick Darkly that the first time 1 catch him at 
his old tricks he shall follow the brother he makes such a 
howling about, and share his fate.^’ 

Sir Everard Kingsland was the speaker. He stood with 
one hand, white and shapely as a lady’s, resting on the 
glossy neck, of his bay horse, his fair, handsome face, 
flushed with auger, turned upon his gamekeeper. 

There vvas an imperious ring in his voice, an imperious 
flash in his steel-blue eyes, that showed how accustomed 
he was to command — how unaccustomed to any power save 
his own. 

Peter Godsoe, the sturdy gamekeeper, standing before 
his young-master, hat in hand, looked up deprecatiugly. 

“ He takes it very hard. Sir Everard, that you sent his 
brother to Worrel Jail. His missis was sick, and two of 
the children had the measles, and Will Darkly he’d been 
out o’ work, and they was poor as poor. So he turns to 
and snares the rabbits, and — ” 

“ Godsoe, are you trying to excuse this convicted 
poacher? Is that what you stopped me here to say?” 
asked the baronet, angrily. 

“I beg your pardon. Sir Everard; I only wanted to 
warn you — to put you on your guard — ” 

He stopped confusedly, as the fair Sax.on face of his 
master grew darker and darker. 

“ To warn me — to put me on my guard? What do you 
mean, fellow? Has that villainous poacher dared to 
threaten me?” 

“ Not in my hearing, sir; but others say so. And he’s 
a dark, vindictive brute; and he swore a solemn oath, they 
say, when his brother went to Worrel Jail, to be revenged 
upon you. And so. Sir Everard, begging your pardon for 
the freedom, I thought* as how you was likely to be out 


52 • THK baronet's bride. 

lute to-night, coming home from my lord's, and as Brith- 
low Wood is lonesome and dark-—" 

“ That will do, Godsoe!" the young baronet interrupt- 
ed, haughtily. You mean well, I dare say, and 1 over- 
look your presumption this time; but never proffer advice 
to me again. As for Darkly, he had better keep out of 
my way. I'll horsewhip him within an inch of his life 
the first time 1 see him, and send him to make acquaint- 
ance with the horse-pond afterward." 

He vaulted lightly into the saddle as he spoke. Tall 
and slender, and somewhat effeminate in his handsome 
youth, he yet looked a gallant cavalier enough astride his 
bay thorough-bred. 

The brawny gamekeeper stood gazing after him as he 
ambled down the leafy avenue, a grim smile on his sun- 
burned face. 

“ His father's son," he said; “ the proudest gentleman 
in Devonshire, and the most headstrong. You'll horse- 
whip Dick Darkly, Sir Everard! Why, he could take you 
with one hand by the waist-band, and lay you low in the 
kennel any day he liked! And he'll do it, too!" muttered 
Godsoe, shaking his head and turning slowly away. “You 
won't be warned, and you won't take precaution, and you 
won't condescend to be afeard, and you'll come to grief 
afore you know it." 

The gamekeeper disappeared in the plantation, and the 
youthful baronet rode out through his own lofty entrance 
gates into the pleasant high-road beyond. 

The misty autumn twilight lay like a veil of silver blue 
over the peaceful English landscape; a cool breeze swept 
up from the sea over the golden downs and distant hills, 
and as Sir Everard rode along through the village, the 
cloud left his face, and a tender, dreamy look came in its 
place. 

“ She will be present, of course," he thought. “ I won- 
der if 1 shall find her as I left her last.^ She is not the 
kind that play fast and loose, my stately, uplifted Lady 
Louise. How queenly she looked at the reception last 
night in those velvet robes and the Carteret diamonds! — 
‘queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.' She is my 
elder by three round years at least, but she is stately as a 
princess, and at twenty-five preserves the ripe bloom of 
eighteen. She is all that is gracious when we meet, and 


TIIK J5AR0NET^S BllIDE. 53 

my mother hus set her heart u 2 )on the match. I have half 
a mind to propose this very night. 

There was no rapture in the young man’s mind at the 
thought. His blood flowed coolly and his pulses beat 
calmly while he turned the tender subject over in his 
mind; and he was only two-and- twenty. 

She was an earl’s daughter, this stately Lady Louise, 
but so very impoverished an earl that the young Devon- 
shire baronet, with his ancient name and his long rent-roll, 
was a most desirably brilliant match. 

She was down on a visit to her brother. Lord Carteret, 
and had made a dead set at Sir Everard Kingsland from 
the hour she had met him first. He was on his way to 
Lord Carteret’s now. There was a dinner-party, and he 
was an honored guest; and Lady Louise was brilliant, in 
the family diamonds and old point lace, once more. 

She was in 'the drawing-room when he entered — her 
stately head regally uplifted in the midst of a group of 
less magnificent demoiselles — a statuesque blonde, with 
abundant ringlets of flaxen lightness, eyes of turquois 
blue, and a determined mouth and chin. 

Sir Everard paid his respects to his host and hostess, and 
sought her side at once. 

“ Almost late,” she said, with a brilliant, welcoming 
smile, giving him her dainty little hand; “and George 
Grosvenor has been looking this way, and pulling his mus- 
tache and blushing redder than the carnations in his but- 
ton-hole. He wants to take me in to dinner, poor fellow, 
and he hasn’t the courage to do it.” 

“ With your kind permission. Lady Louise, I will save 
him the trouble,” answered Sir Everard Kingsland. 
“ Grosvenor is not singular in his wish, but 1 never gave 
him credit for so much good taste before.” 

Lady Louise laughed good-naturedl 3 \ Those jiearly 
teeth lighted up her face wonderfully, and she was very 
fond of showing them. 

“Mr. Grosvenor is more at home in the huntiug-field 
lhan the drawing-room, 1 fancy. Apropos, Sir Everard, 
1 ride to the meet to-morrow. Of course you will be pres- 
ent on your ‘ bonny bay ’ to display your prowess?” 

“ Of couse— a fox-hunt is to me a foretaste of celestial 
bliss. With a first-rate horse, a crack pack of hounds, a 
‘good scent,’ and a fine morning, a man is tempted to 


54 THE baronet's bride. 

wish life could last forever. And you are only going to 
ride to the nieet, then. Lady Louise?" 

“ Yes; 1 never followed the hounds. I don't know the 
country, and 1 can't ride to points. Besides, I am not 
really Amazonian enough to fancy a scamper across the 
country, flying fences and risking my precious neck. It's 
much nicer ambling (quietly home when the hounds start, 
and indulging in a novel and a post-meridian cup of tea." 

“ And much more womanly. 1 shouldn't have liked to 
say so before, but 1 must own that, to me, a lady never 
looks less attractive than in a hunting-field, among yelping 
hounds, and shouts, and cheers, and cords and tops, and 
scarlet coats." 

“ That comes of being a poet and an artist; and Sir 
Everard Kingsland is accused of being both. You want 
to fancy us all angels, and you can not reconcile an angelic 
being with a side-saddle and a hard gallop. Now, I don't 
own to being anything in the Di Vernon line myself, and 
I don't wish to be; but 1 do admire a spirited lady rider, 
and I do think a pretty girl never looks half so pretty as 
when well mounted. You should have seen Harrie Huns- 
den, as I saw her the other day, and you would surely 
recant your heresy about ladies and horse-flesh." 

“ Is Harrie Hunsdeu a lady?" 

“ Certainly. Don't you know her? Ah I I forgot you 
have been abroad all these years, and that 1 know more of 
our neighbors than you do, who are ‘ to the manor born. ' 
She is Captain Hunsden's only daughter — Hunsden, of 
Hunsden Hall, over yonder, one of your oldest Devon 
families. You'll find them duly chronicled in Burke and 
Debrett. But Captain Hunsden has been abroad so much 
that I am not surprised at your want of information. Miss 
Hunsden is scarcely eighteen, but she has been over the 
world from Dan to Beersheba — from Quebec to Gibraltar 
—from Halifax to Calcutta. Two years of her life she 
passed at a New York boarding-school, of which cit}^, it 
appears, her mother was a native." 

“Indeed!" Sir Everard said, just lifting his eyebrows. 
“ And Miss Hunsden rides well?" 

“ Like Di Vernon's self. And I repeat, I don't affect 
the Di Vernon style." 

“ Is your Miss Hunsden pretty? and shall we see her at 
the meet to-moiTow?" 


THE BAROKET'S BRIDE. 


55 


“ Yes, to both questions; and more than at the meet, I 
fancy. She and her thorough-bred. Whirlwind, will lead 
you all. Her scarlet habit and ‘ red roan steed are as 
well known in the country as the duke's hounds, and her 
bright eyes and dashing style have taken by storm the sus- 
ceptible hearts of half the fox-hunting squires of Devon- 
shire." 

She laughed a little maliciously, this vivacious Lady 
Louise. Truth to tell, not being quite sure that her game 
was safely wired, and dreading this Amazonian Miss Huns- 
den as a prospective rival, she was nothing loath to preju- 
dice the fastidious young baronet beforehand, even while 
seeming to praise her. 

“1 am surprised that you have not heard of her," she 
said, in her soft accents. “ Sir Harcourt Helford and Mr. 
Cholmondeley actually fought a duel about her, and it 
ended in her telling them to -their faces they were a pair of 
idiots, and flatly refusing both. ‘ The Hunsden ' is the 
toast of the country." 

Sir Everard shuddered. 

“ From all such the gods deliver us! You honor Miss 
Hunsden with your deepest interest, I think. Lady 
Louise?" , 

“ Yes, she is such an oddity. Her wandering life, I 
presume, accounts for it; but she is altogether unlike any 
girl I ever knew. I am certain," with a little malicious 
glance, “ she will be your style. Sir Everard." 

“ And as 1 don't in the least know vvhat my style is," 
responded Sir Everard, with infinite calm, “ perhaps you 
may be right." 

Lad'y Louise bit her liji — it was a rebuff, she fancied, for 
her detraction. And then Lady Carteret gave that mys- 
terious signal, and the ladies rose and swept rustling away 
in billows of silk to the drawing-room, and the gentlemen 
had the talk to themselves “ across the walnuts and the 
wine." 

To one gentleman present the interim before rejoining 
the ladies was an unmitigatedly dull one, even though the 
talk ran on two of his favorite topics — horse-flesh and 
hunting. He was in love, he thought complacently, and 
Lady Louise's eyes had sparkled to-day, and her smiles 
had flashed their bewildering brightness upon him more 
radiantly than ever belore, 


56 


THE EARONET’S BRIDE. 


“ How pleased my mother will be!^^ Sir Everarcl 
thought;, holding his wine up to the light. “ I will ask 
Lady Louise this Very evening. An earFs daughter — even 
though a bankrupt — is a fitting mate for a Kingsland. 

Lady Louise sat at the piano — a piano whose notes were 
as the music of the spheres — the soft light falling full cn 
her pale, statuesque face, and making an aureole around 
her fair, shapely head. Her white dress of heavy, luster- 
loss silk fell in classical folds around her stately figure, and 
the hands floating over the keys flashed with diamonds that 
dead-and-gone earls’ daughters had worn a hundred years 
before. 

Sir Everard Kingsland crossed over and stood beside 
her, and Lord and Lady Carteret exchanged significant 
glances, and smiled. 

It was a very desirable thing, indeed; they had brought 
Louise down for no other earthly reason ; and Louise was 
playing her cards, and playing them well. 

If Sir Everard had one taste stronger than another it 
was his taste for music, and Lady Louise held him spell- 
bound now. She played, and her fingers seemed inspired; 
she sung, and few non-professionals sung like that. 

The chain of brittle glass that bound the captive beside 
her grew stronger. A wife who could bewitch the hours 
away with such music as this would be no undesirable pos- 
session for a Uase man. He stooped over her as she arose 
from the piano at last. 

“ Come out on the balcony,” he said. “ The night is 
lovely, and the good people yonder are altogether engrossed 
in their cards and their small -talk.” 

Her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes lighted up. She knew 
intuitively what was coming. Without a word she stepped 
with him from the open French window out into the star- 
lit night. 

What is it that Byron says about solitude, and moon- 
light, and youth? A dangerous combination, truly; and 
so Sir Everard Kingsland found, standing side by side with 
this pale daughter of a hundred earls, under the swinging 
stars. But the irrevocable words were not destined to be 
spoken, for just then George Grosvenor, goaded to jealous 
desj3eration, stalked out through the open casement and 
joined them. 

The big midnight moon was sailing slowly up to the 


THE BARON^ET'S bribe. 57 

zenith as Sir Everard rode home. His road was a lonely 
one at all times — doubly lonely through Brithlow Wood, 
which shortened his journey by 'over a mile; but his 
thoughts were pleasant ones, and he hummed, as he rode, 
the songs Lady Louise had sung. 

“ Confound that muff, Grosv^enor!’^ he thought. “ If 
it had not been for his impertinent intrusion, the matter 
would have been safely settled by this time — and settled 
pleasantly too, I take it; for, without being a conceited 
noodle, I really think Lady Louise will say yes. Ah! 
what^s this?^^ 

For out of the starlit darkness, from among the trees, 
started up a giant black figure, and his horse was grasped 
by the bridle and hurled back upon his haunches. ' He 
was in the midst of the wood, midnight solitude and gloom 
around. 

“You villain,^ ^ the young man dauntlessly cried, “ let 
go my bridle-rein! Who are you? What do you want?’^ 

“ I^m Dick Darkly,' ’ answered a deep, gruff voice, “ and 
1 want your heart's blood!" 

“ You poaching scoundrel!" exclaimed Sir Everard, 
quick as lightning raising his riding-whip and slashing the 
aggressor across the face. “ Let go my horse's head!" 

With a cry that was like the roar of a wild beast the man 
sprung back. The next instant, with a horrible oath, he 
had seized the young man in the grasp of a giant, and torn 
him out of the saddle. 

“ I'll tear you limb from limb for that blow, by heav- 
ens:" Dick Darkly shouted. “If I hadn't meant to kill 
you before, I would kill you for that cut of your whip. 
I've waited for you. Sir Everard Kingsland! I swore re- 
venge> and revenge I'll have! I'll kill you this night, if 
they hang me for it to-morrow!" 

He had the strength of a dozen such men as the slender 
young baronet. He towered up in the weird night like a 
grim, black monster, with murder in his face, and a devil 
gleaming in either eye. He held his victim in a grip of 
iron, from which he struggled madly to get free, while 
the horse, with a shrill neigh of terror, started off rider- 
less. 

“ I swore I'd kill you. Sir Everard Kingsland," Dick 
Darkly growled, “ when you put my poor brother in Wor- 
rel Jail for snaring the miserable rabbits to keep his sick 


58 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


wife and children from starving. 1 swore it, and I’ll keep 
my oath. You told your gamekeeper this very day you 
would lash me like a dog, and duck me after. Aha, Sir 
Everard! Where's the horse- whip and the horse-pond 
now?" 

“ Here!" shouted the young baronet; and with a mighty 
effort he freed his arms, and raising the whip, slashed Dick 
Darkly for the second time across the face. “ You mur- 
dering villain, you shall swing for this!" 

With a blind roar of pain and rage, the murderer closed 
with his victim. They grappled, and rolled over and over 
in each other's arms. Now the baronet was uppermost, 
now his assailant, in a silent, deadly struggle. 

The moonlight, sifting down through the trees, saw the 
grim, white faces, the starting eye-balls, the blood-stained 
grass. Panting and speechless, the death-struggle went 
on; but Sir Everard was no match for the burly giant. 
His sight was failing him, his breath coming in choking 
gasps, his hands powerlessly relaxing their hold. With a 
savage cry, the huge poacher thrust his hand into his belt, 
and a long, blue-bladed knife gleamed murderously in the 
moon's rays. 

“ At last!" he panted, his face distorted with fiendish 
fury. ‘‘ I'll have your heart's blood, as I swore I'd have 
it!" 

He lifted the murderous knife. Sir Everard Kingsland 
tried to gasp one last ^brief prayer in that supreme mo- 
ment. In another he knew that deadly blade would be up 
to the hilt in his heart. 

“Help!" he cried, with a last wild struggle — “help! 
help! murder!" 

There was a rustling in the trees and some one sprung 
out. The last word was lost in the sharp report of a pis- 
tol, and with an unearthly scream of agony, Dick Darkly 
dropped his knife and fell backward on the grass. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A MYSTERIOUS YOUNG MAN. 

The baronet leaped to his feet, and stood face to face 
with his preserver. The giant trees, towering up until 
they seemed to pierce the sky, half shut out the moon- 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


59 


light, but yet Sir Everard could see that it was a slender 
stripling who stood before him, a slouched hat pulled far 
over his eyes. 

“ I owe you my life,” he cried, grasping the youth’s 
hand. “ An instant later, and 1 would have been in eter- 
nity. How shall I ever thank you?” 

“Don’t make the attempt,” replied the lad, coolly. 
“ It was the merest chance- work in the world that sent me 
here to-night.” 

“ Don*t call it chance, my boy. It was Providence sent 
you to save a life.” 

The youth laughed — a soft and silvery laugh enough, 
but with an unpleasant latent mockery. 

“ Providence? I’m afraid that great guiding Power has 
very little to do with my actions. However, you may be 
right. Providence may have wished to save your life, and 
was not particular as to the means. Let us look to this 
fellow. I hope my stray shot has not killed him out- 
right.” 

They both stooped over the fallen giant. Dick Darkly 
lay on his face, groaning dismally, the blood pumping 
from his chest with every breath. 

“ It’s an ugly-looking hole,” said Sir Everard. “Two 
inches lower, and it would have gone straight through his 
heart. As it is, it will put a stop to his assassinating pro- 
clivities for awhile, I fancy. Lie still, you matchless 
scoundrel, while I try and stop this flow of blood. ” 

He knelt beside the groaning man and endeavored to 
stanch the red gushing with his handkerchief. The youth 
stood by, gazing calmly on. 

“ What do you mean to do with him?” he asked. 

“ Send some of my people to take him to his home, and 
as soon as he is sufficiently recovered to stand his trial for 
attempted murder — ” 

“ For God’s sake. Sir Everard!” faintly moaned the 
wounded man. 

“ Ah, you audacious villain, you can supplicate now! If 
I let you off this time, my life would not be worth an 
hour’s purchase. Once you were able to stand again on 
your rascally legs, I should be shot at like a dog from be- 
hind a hedge.” 

“ AYhat did he call you?” asked the boy, with sudden, 
sharp anxiety in his tone. Whose life have I saved?” 


60 


THE BAEONET’S bride. 


“I am Sir Everard Kingsland, of Kingsland Court/^ 
the baronet answered. “ And you are — who?^' 

The light there in that dusky woodland path was too 
dim for Sir Everard to see the change that passed over the 
youth^s face at' these words. It turned to a dull, leaden 
white. His right hand involuntarily clutched the dis- 
charged pistol and his eyes glowed like live coals. 

“Sir Everard Kingsland!’’ he slowly repeated, and his 
very voice had altered. “ And I have saved your life!” 

“ For which Heaven be praised! It is a very pleasant 
world, this, and I have no desire just yet to leave it. Pray 
tell me the name of my preserver!” 

He had stanched the flow of blood and now stood before 
the youth, trying to see his hidden face. But the boyish 
head drooped. 

“ Never mind my name; it is of no consequence who 1 
am. I have a long journey before me; lam very weary 
and footsore, and it is time I was on my way. ” 

“ Weary and footsore?” repeated the baronet. “Nay 
— then all the more need we should not part. Come home 
with me and rest — to-night, at least. I owe you a heavy 
debt, and I should like to pay a little of it.” 

“ You owe me nothing!” His eyes gleamed under his 
hat and his teeth clinched as he spoke. “Nothing, Sir 
Everard Kingsland! Let us say good-bye. 1 must reach 
Worrel by sunrise.” 

“ And so you shall. The fleetest steed in my stables 
shall carry you. But come to Kingsland and rest for the 
night. If you will not accept my thanks, accept at least 
the shelter of my roof.” 

The boy seemed to hesitate. 

The baronet took advantage of that momentary hesita- 
tion and drew his arm through his own. There was not a 
prouder man in wide England, but this unknown lad had 
saved his life, and Sir Everard was only two-and-twenty, 
and full of generous impulses. 

“ Come,” he said, “ don’t be obstinate. You own to 
being footsore and weary. Kingsland is very near, and a 
night’s rest will do you good.” 

The hidden face flushed, the hidden eyes glowed, but 
the voice that answered was calm. 

“ Thanks! I accept your kind hospitality. Sir Everard, 
on two conditions.” 


THE BAHOKET’S BRIDE. 61 

“ On any conditions you choose, mon ami. What are 
they?^^ 

“ That no one shall know it hut yourself, and that I 
may depart before day-dawn.'’^ 

“ I dislike that last condition very much; but it must be 
as you say. Sleep in safety, most mysterious youth; no 
one shall know you are under my roof, and I will come 
and wake you myself at the first peep of day. Will that 
do?'^ 

“ x\dmirably, You are very kind to take all this trouble 
for a nameless tramp. Sir Everard. 

“ Am 1? Even when the nameless tramp saved my 
life?’^ — yet Sir Everard winced % little while saying it. 
“ And that reminds me, we must hasten, if yonder fallen 
villain is to recover from his wound. His condition is not 
an enviable one at this moment.-” 

“ How did it happen?” the boy asked. 

And the young baronet repeated the story of Dick 
Darkly’s provocation and vow of revenge. 

As he concluded they passed through the stately gates, 
up the majestic sweep of drive, to the imposing old man- 
sion. 

“ Home!” Sir Everard said, gayly. “ Solitude and 
darkness reign, you see. The family have long since re- 
tired, and v/e can pass to our respective dormitories un- 
seen and unheard.” 

The boy looked up with his brilliant, glowing eyes. 
There was more than mere curiosity in that look — the 
bright, fierce eyes actually seemed to glare in the moon- 
light. But he did not speak. In silence he followed Sir 
Everard in,, up the noble marble stair-way, along richly 
carpeted, softly lighted corridors, and into a stately cham- 
ber. 

“You will sleep here,” Sir Everard said. “ My room 
is near, and I am a light sleeper. To-morrow morning at 
five I will rouse you. Until then adieu, and pleasant 
dreams.” 

He swung out and closed the door, and not once had he 
seen the- face of his guest. That guest stood in the center 
of the handsome chamber, and gazed around with glitter- 
ing eyes. 

“At last!” he hisses between his set white teeth — “ at 


62 


THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 

last, after two years^ weary waiting! At last, oh! my 
mother, the time has come for me to keep my vow!^^ 

He raised one arm with a tragic gesture, removed the 
slouched hat, ajid stood uncovered in the tranquil half 
light. 

The face was wonderfully handsome, of gypsy darkness, 
and the eyes shone like black stars; but a scarlet hand- 
kerchief was bound tightly around his head, and concealed 
every vestige of hair. With a slow smile creeping round 
his mouth, the boy took his handkerchief off. 

“ To-morrow he will come and call me, but to-morrow 
I shall not leave Kingsland Court. No, my dear young 
baronet, I have not saved your life for nothing! I shall 
have the honor of remaining your guest for some time.^^ 
All dressed as he was, he flung himself on the bed, and 
in ten minutes was fast asleep. 


CHAPTER JX. 

MISS STBILLA SILVER. 

Meantime Sir Everard had aroused his valet and a 
brace of tall footmen, and dispatched them to the aid of 
the wounded man in the wood. And then he sought his 
own chamber, and, after an hour or two of aimless tossing, 
dropped into an uneasy sleep. 

And sleeping, Sir Everard had a singular dream. He 
was walking through Brithlow Wood with Lady Louise on 
his arm, the moonlight sifting through the tall trees as he 
had seen it last. Suddenly, w^ith a rustle and a hiss, a huge 
green serpent glided out, reared itself up, and glared at 
them with eyes of deadly menace. And somehow, though 
he had not yet seen the lad^s face, he knew the hissing ser- 
pent and the preserver of his life were one and the same. 
With horrible hisses the monster encircled him. Its fetid 
bieath was in his face, its deadly fangs ready to strike his 
dea*h-blow, and, with a suffocating cry. Sir Everard awoke 
from his nightmare and started up in bed. 

The cold perspiration stood'- on his brow, and the first 
little pink cloud of dawn was rosy in the east. 

“ Good heavens! such a night of horrors, waking and 
sleeping! A most ungrateful dream, truly! It is time I 
gwote my uukriown preseryorf ' 


THE BAEOKET'S BEIDE. 


63 


He sprang out of bed, dressed hastily,’ and made his way 
to the chamber of his guest. He rapped at the door — 
once, twice, thrice, louder each time, but still no answer. 
Then he turned the handle and went in. But on the very 
threshold he recoiled as if he had been struck. 

The mysterious youth lay fast asleep upon the bed, 
dressed as he had left him, with the exception of the 
slouched hat and the red cotton handkerchief. They lay 
on the carpet; and over' the pillows, and over the coarse 
velveteen jacket streamed such a wealth of blue-black hair 
as the baronet in all his^ life never before beheld. It 
reached to the sleeper^s waist in its rich, luxurious abun- 
dance. 

“Powers above!'’’ Sir Everard gasped, in his utter 
amaze, “ what can this mean?” 

He advanced with bated breath, bent over and gazed at 
the sleeper’s face. One look, and his flashing first suspi- 
cion was a certainty. This dark, youthful, faultlessly 
beautiful face was a woman’s face; that flowing cloud of 
blue-black hair was a woman’s hair. A girl in velveteen 
shooting-jacket and pantaloons, handsome as some dusky 
Indian princess, lay asleep before him. 

Sir Everard Kingsland, in the last stage of bewilderment 
and amaze, retreated precipitately and shut the door. 

“And to think,” he said to himself in the passage, 
when he could catch his breath, “ that my mysterious 
young man of Brithlow Wood should turn out to be a mys- 
terious young woman! And a dead shot at that, by Jove!” 

The instant the chamber door closed the mysterious 
young man raised himself on his elbow, very wide awake, 
his handsome face lighted with a triumphant smile. 

“ So,” he said, “ stop the second has been taken, and 
Sir Everard has discovered the sex of his preserver. As 
he is too delicate to disturb a slumbering lady in disguise, 
the slumbering lady must disturb him!” 

He— or rather she — leaped lightly off the bed, picked up 
the scarlet bandanna, twisted scientifically the abundant 
black hair, bound it up with the handkerchief, and crushed 
down over all the slouched hat. Then, with the handsome 
face overshadowed, and all expression screwed out of it, 
she opened the door, and saw, as she expected, the young 
baronet in the passage. 

fie stopped at once at sight of her. He had been walk- 


THE BAKONET’s BKIDE. 


ing up and down, with an exceedingly surprised and per- 
plexed face; and now he stood with his great, Saxon-hlue 
eyes piercingly fixed upon the young person in velveteen, 
whose jacket and trousers told one story, and whose 
streaming dark hair told quite another. 

“ It is past sunrise. Sir Everard,’^ his preserver began, 
with a reproachful glance, “ and you have broken your 
promise. You said you would awake me/^ 

“ I beg your pardon,” retorted Sir Everard, quietly; “ 1 
have broken no promise. 1 came to your room ten min- 
utes ago to arouse you, as 1 said 1 would. I knocked 
thrice, and received no reply. Then I entered. You 
must excuse me for doing so. How was 1 to know I was 
entertaining angels unaware?” 

With a low cry of consternation his hearer^s hands flew 
up and covered his face, to hide the blushes that were not 
there. 

“ Your red handkerchief and hat do you good service in 
your masquerade, mademoiselle. I confess ! should never 
suspect a lady in that suit of velveteen.” 

AV'ith a sudden theatrical abandon the “ lady in velvet- 
een flung herself on her knees at his feet. 

“ Forgive me!” she cried, holding up her clasped hands. 
“ Have pity on me! DonT reveal my secret, for Heaven’s 
sake.” 

“ Forgive you!” repeated Sir Everard, hastily, endeav- 
oring to raise her. He had a true masculine hatred of 
scenes, and the present seemed a little overdone. “ What 
have 1 to forgive? Pray get up; there is no reason you 
should kneel and supplicate pity from me. You are wel- 
come to don inexpressibles to the last day of your life, as 
far as 1 am concerned. ” 

He raised her imperatively. Her head dropped in wom- 
anly confusion, and, hiding her face, she sobbed. 

“ What must you think? How dreadful it must look! 
But, oh. Sir Everard! if you only knew — if you only 
knew!” 

“ I should like to know, I confess. Come here in this 
window recess and tell me, won’t you? The servants will 
be about presently, and. will disturb us. Come, look up, 
and don’t cry so. Tell me who you are.” 

“lam Sybilla Silver, and I have run away from home, 
and I will die sooner than ever go back!” 


THE EAROHET'S BRIDE. 


65 


She looked up with a passionate outbreak, and Sir Ever- 
urd, for the first time, saw the luminous splendor of a 
pair of flashing Spanish eyes. 

“ 1 shall not send you back, depend upon it. Why did 
you run away. Miss Silver?’^ 

He smiled a little as he said it, the feminine appellation 
sounded so incongruous addressed to this slender lad in vel- 
veteen. Again the flashing brightness of the splendid 
Spanish eyes dazzled him. 

“ Do you really wish to know?’" she asked, earnestly. 
“Oh, Sir Everard ' Kingsland, will you indeed be my 
friend?” 

“ Your true and faithful friend, my poor girl!” he an- 
swered, moved by the piteous appeal. “ Surely I could 
hardly be less to one who so bravely saved my life.” 

“Ah! that was nothing. Hay no claim on that. Serve 
me as you would serve any friendless girl in distress; and 
you are brave and generous and noble, 1 know.” 

The young baronet smiled. 

“ You ‘ do me proud,’ mademoiselle. Suppose you cease 
complimenting, and begin at the beginning. Who are your 
friends, and why did you leave them, and where have you 
run away from?” 

“ From Yorkshire, Sir Everard — yes, all the way from 
Yorkshire in this disguise. Ah! it seems very bold and 
unwomanly, does it hot? But my uncle was such a tyrant, 
and I had no appeal. I am an orphan, Sir Everard. My 
father and mother have been dead since my earliest recol- 
lection, and this uncle, my sole earthly relative, has been 
my guardian and tormentor. I can not tell you how 
cruelly ho has treated me. 1 have been immured in a des- 
olate old country-house, without friends or companions of 
my own age or sex, and left to drag On a useless and aim- 
less life. My poor father left me a scant inheritance; but, 
such as it is, my uncle set his greedy heart upon adding it 
to his own. To do this, he determined upon marrying me 
to his only son. My cousin AVilliam was his father over 
again — meaner, more cruel and crafty and cold-blooded, 
if possible — and utterly abhorred by me. 1 would sooner 
have died ten thousand deaths than marry such a sordid, 
hateful wretch! But marry him I surely must have done, 
if I remained in their power. So 1 fled. With inconceiv- 
able trouble and maneuvering, I obtained this suit of 

3 


66 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


clothes. If I fled undisguised, I knew I would certainly be 
pursued, overtaken, and brought back. In the dead of 
night I opened my chamber window and made my escape. 

I took a loaded pistol of my uncle’s with me; I knew how 
to use it, and I felt safe with such a protector. My old 
nurse lived in Plymouth with her daughter, and to her I 
meant to go. I had a little money with me, and made 
good my esc^e. My disguise saved me from suspicion 
and insult. Last night, on my way to Worrel, I heard, 
your cry for help, and my pistol stood me in good stead, 
for the first time. There, Sir Everard, you know all. 1 
hate and despise myself for the dress I wear, but surely 
there is some excuse to be made for me.” 

The Spanish eyes, swimming in tears, were raised im- 
ploringly to his, and Sir Everard was two-and-twenty, and 
very susceptible to a beautiful woman’s tears. 

P Very much excuse, my- poor girl!” he said, warmly. 
“ I am the last on earth to blame you for flying from a 
detested marriage. But there is no need to wear this dis- 
guise longer, surely?” 

“No; no need. But I have had no opportunity of 
changing it; and if I do not succeed in finding my nurse 
at Plymouth, I don’t know what will become of me.” 

“ Have you not her address?” 

“No; neither have I heard from her in a long, long 
time. She lived in Plymouth years ago with her married 
daughter, but we never corresponded; and whether she is 
there now, or whether indeed she is living at all, I do not 
'know. I caught at the hope as the drowning catch at 
straws.” 

Sir Everard paused thoughtfully a moment. She had 
removed the ugly hat and handkerchief while talking, and 
the luxuriant hair streamed in a glossy mass of curls and 
ripples over her shoulders. 

He looked at her in that thoughtful pause. How beauti- 
ful she was in her dark, glowing girlhood — how friendless, 
how desolate in the world. 

All that was chivalric, and generous, and romantic, and 
impulsively youthful in the handsome baronet awoke. 

“ It would be the wildest of wild-goose chases, then,” 
he said, “ knowing.as little of your nurse’s whereabouts as 
you do, to seek her in Plymouth now. Write first, or ad- 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 67 

Yertise in the local journals. If she is still resident there, 
that will fetch her.” 

“ Write! advertise!” Sybilla Silver repeated, with un- 
speakable mournfulness; “from whence. Sir Everard?” 

“ From here,” answered the baronet, decidedly. “You 
shall not leave here until you find your friends. And you 
shall not wear this odious disguise an hour longer. Go 
back to your chamber g,ud wait.” 

He rose abruptly and left her; and. Miss Sybilla Silver, 
with a steely glitter in her handsome black eyes and a dis- 
agreeably derisive smile about her pretty mouth, got up 
and went slowly back to her room. 

“ What an egregious muff he is!” she said to herself, 
contemptuously. “ There is no cleverness in fooling such 
an imbecile as that. I am going on velvet for so far; I 
only hope my lady may be as easily dealt with as my lady’s 
only son.” 

My lady’s only son went straight to a door down the 
corridor, quite at the other extremity, and opened it. 

As he expected at that early hour, he found it deserted. 
It was a lady’s dressing-room evidently, and a miracle of 
plate-glass, and gilding, and" cedar closets, and prettiness. 
Laid out, all ready for wear, was a lady’s morning toilet 
complete, and without more ado Sir Everjlrd confiscated 
the whole concern. At the white cashmere robe alone he 
caviled. 

“ This is too gay; I must find a more, sober garment. 
All the maid-servants in the house would recognize this 
immediately.” 

He went to one of the closets, searched there, and pres- 
ently reappeared with a black silk dress. Rolling all up 
in a heap, .he started at once with his prize, laughing in- 
wardly at the figure he cut. 

‘^If Lady Louise saw me now, or my lady mother, either, 
for that matter! Wliat will Mildred and her maid say, I 
wonder, when they find burglars have been at work, and 
her matutinal toilet stolen?” 

He bore the bundle straight to the chamber of his pretty 
runaway, ^nd tapped at the door. It was discreetly opened 
an inch or two. 

“ Here are some clothes. When you are dressed, come 
out. I will wait in the passage.” 

“ Thank you,” Miss Silver’s soft voice said — she had 


68 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

a pcculinrly soft, sweet voice — and then the door closed and 
Sir Everard was left to wait. . ^ 

The young: person whose adventures were so highly sen- 
sational doffed her yelveteens and donned the dainty gar- 
ments of Miss Mildred Kingsland. She examined the fine, 
snow-white linen with a curious smile. 

All the things were beautifully made and embroidered, 
marked with the initials “ M. K.,” and adorned with the 
Kingsland crest. And, strange to say, all, the black silk 
robe included, fitted her wonderfully. The dress was 
rather tight, but she managed 'to fasten it. 

“ Miss Mildred Kingsland must be tall and slender, since 
her dress fits me so well. Ah, what a change even a black 
silk dress makes in'one^s appearance! He admired me — I 
saw he did, in jacket and pantaloons— what will he do, then, 
in this? Will he fall in love with me. 1 wonder?” 

She laughed softly to herself at the thought. She was 
busy brushing out the luxuriant tresses and twisting the 
long, glossy curls around her taper fingers. 

One parting peep in the glass, and she opened the door 
and stepped out before Sir Everard Kingsland, a dazzling 
vision of beauty. 

He stood and gazed. Could he believe his eyes? Was 
this superb-looking woman with the flowing curls, the 
dark, bright beauty and imperial mien, the lad in velveteen 
who had shot the poacher last night? Why, Cleopatra 
might have looked like that, in the height of her regal 
splendor, or Queen Semimmis, in the glorious days that 
were gone. 

“ This is indeed a transformation,” he said, coming for- 
ward. “ Your disguise was perfect. I should never have 
known you for the youth I parted from ten minutes ago.” 

“ 1 can never thank you sufficiently. Sir Everard. Ah, 
if you knew how I abhorred myself in that hatefuf dis- 
guise! Nothing earthly will ever induce me to put it on 
again.” , 

“1 trust not,” he said, gravely; “let us hope it may 
never be necessai’y. You are safe here. Miss Silver, from 
the tyranny of your uncle and cousin. The friendless and 
unprotected shall never be turned from Kingsland Court.” 

She'^tookhis hand and lifted it to her lips, and once more 
the luminous eyes were swimming in tears. 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. G9 

The action was theatrically graceful, but to Sir Everard 
very real, and his fair face reddened like a girl’s. 

“ 1 would thank you if 1 could. Sir Everard,” the sween 
voice murmured; “ but you overpower me! Your good- 
ness is beyond thanks.” 

A footstep on the marble stair made itself unpleasantly 
audible at this interesting crisis. Miss Silver dropped the 
baronet’s hand with a wild instinct of flight in her great 
black eyes. 

“ Eeturn to your room,” Sir Everard whispered. 
“Lock the door, and remain there until I apprise my 
mother of your presence here and prepare her to receive 
you. Quick! I don’t want these prying prigs of servants 
to find you here. ” 

She vanished like a flash. 

Sir Everard Walked down-stairs, and passed his own valet 
sleepily ascending. 

“ I beg your parding, .Sir Heverard,” said the valet, in - 
a tone of respectfuL reproach; “ but we was all very anx- 
ious about you. Sir Galahad came galloping home rider- 
less, and — ” r 

“That will do, Edward. You did not disturb Lady 
Kingsland?’^ 

“ No, Sir Heverard.” 

Sir Everard passed abruptly on and sought the stables 
at once. Sir Galahad was there, undergoing his morning 
toilet, and greeted his master with a loud neigh of delight. 

The young baronet dawdled away the lagging morning 
hours, smoking endless cigars under the waving trees, and 
waiting for the time when my lady should be visible. She 
rarely rose before noon, but to-day was one of the rare, oc- 
casions, and she deigned to get up at nine. Sir Everard 
flung away his last cigar, and went bounding up the grande 
stairs three at a time. 

Lady Kingsland sat breakfasting in her boudoir with her 
daughter — a charming little bijou of a room, all filigree 
work, and fluted walls, delicious little Grreuze paintings, 
and flowers and perfume — and Lady Kingsland, in an ex- 
quisitely becoming robe de matin, at five-and-fifty looked 
fair and handsome, and scarce middle-aged yet. Time, 
that deals so gallantly with these blonde beauties, had just 
thinned the fair hair at the parting, and planted dainty 


70 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 


crow’s-feet about the patrician mouth, but left the white 
skin unwrinkled and no thread of silver under the pretty 
Parisian lace cap. 

Mildred Kingsland, opposite her mother, scarcely bore 
her thirty years so gracefully. She looked pale and 
passee, worn and faded, and seemed likely to remain Miss 
Kingsland to the end of her days now. , She had had her 
little romance,, poor girl, and it had been incontinently 
nipped in the bud by imperious mamma, and she had duti- 
fully yielded, with the pain sha}:p in her heart all the same. 
But he was poor, and Mildred was weak, and so good-bye 
had been said forever, and Lady Kingsland’s only daugh- 
ter glided uncomplainingly into old-maidenhood. 

My lady glanced over her shoulder, and greeted her son 
with a bright, loving smile. . He was her darling and her 
pride — her earthly idol — ^^the last of the Kingslands. What 
was a pale-faced, insipid girl like Mildred beside this 
“ curled darling of the gods?” 

‘‘ Good-morning, Everard! 1 thought you would have 
done Mildred and myself the honor of breakfasting with 
us. Perhaps it is not too late yet. May I offer you a cup 
of chocolate?” ‘ ^ 

“■ Kot at all too late, mother mine. I accept your offer 
and your chocolate on the spot. Milly, good-morning! 
You are white as your dress! 

“ ‘ Oh, fair, pale Margaret! 

Oh, rare, pale Margaret!’ 

what is the matter?” 

“ Mildred is fading away to a shadow of late,” his moth- 
er said. “ 1 must take her to the sea-shore for change.” 

“ When?” asked Sir Everard. 

“ Let me see. Ah! when you are married, I think. 
What time did you come home last night, and how is Lady 
Louise?” 

“ Lady Louise is very well. My good mother” — half 
laughing~“ are you very anxious for a daughter-in-law at 
Kingsland to quarrel with?” 

“ I shall not quarrel with Lady Louise.” 

“ Then, willy-nilly, it must be Lord Carteret’s daughter, 
and no other?” ' ' 

“ Everard,” his mother said, earnestly, “ you know I 
have set my heart on seeing Lady Louise your wife; and 


71 


^ THE baronet's BRIDE. 

she loves you, 1 know. And you, my darling Everard — 
you will not disappoint me?" 

“ 1 should be an ungrateful wretch if I did! Rest easy, 
ma mere — Lady Louise shall become Lady Kingsland, or 
the fault shall not be mine. I believed I should have 
^sked the momentous little question last night but for that 
interloper, George Grosvenor!" 

“ Ah I jealous, of course. He is always de trop,ihsX 
great, stupid George," my lady said, complacently. “ And 
was the dinner-party agreeable; and what time did you get 
home?" 

“ The dinner-party was delightful, and I came home 
shortly after midnight. What time Sir Galahad arrived I 
can't say — half an hour before 1 did, at least." 

Lady Kingsland looked inquiringly. 

“ Did you not ride Sir Galahad?" 

“Yes, until I was torn from the saddle! My dear 
mother, I met with an adventure last night, and you had 
like nev^r to see your precious son again." 

“Everard!" 

“ Quite true. But for the direct interposition of Provi- 
dence, in the shape of a handsome lad in velveteen, who 
shot my assailant, 1 would be lying now in Brithlow Wood 
yonder, as dead as any Kingsland in the family vault." 

And then, while Lady Kingsland, very, very pale in her 
alarm, gazed at him breathlessly. Sir Everard related his 
thrilling midnight adventure and its cause. 

“ Good heavens!" my lady cried, starting from her seat 
and clasping*him convulsively in her arms. “ Oh, to think 
what might have happened! My boy — my boy!" 

The young man laughed and kissed her. 

Very true, mother; but a miss is as good as a mile, 
you know. Poetical justice befell my assailant; and here 
I am safe and sound, sipping chocolate. Another cup, if 
you please, Milly." 

“ And the preserver of your life, Everard— where is he?" 

“ IJ|)stairs, waiting, like patience on a monument; and, 
by the same token, fasting all this time! But it isn't- a 
he, ma mere ; it's a she." 

“ What?" 

Sir Everard laughed. 

“ Such a mystified face, mother! Oh, it's highly sensa- 


72 THE baeoket’s bride. 

tional and melodramatic, I promise you! Sit down. and 
hear the sequel. 

And then, eloquently and persuasively. Sir Everard re- 
peated Miss Sybilla's Silver's extraordinary story, and Lady 
KingSland was properly shocked. 

“ Disguised herself in men's clothes! My dear Everard, 
what a dreadful creature she must be!" 

“ Not at all dreadful, mother. She is as sensitive and 
womanly a young lady as ever 1 saw in ,my life. And," 
pursued the baronet, moderately, " she's a very pretty 
girl, too." 

Lady Kingsland looked suspiciously at her sou. She 
highly disapproved of pretty girls where he was concerned; 
but the handsome face was frank and open as the day, 
rather laughing at her than otherwise. 

“ Now don’t be suspicious, Lady Kingsland. I'm not go- 
ing to fall in love with Miss Sybilla Silver, I give you my 
word and honor. She saved my life, remember. May I 
not fetch her here?" 

“ What! in men's clothes, and before your sister? Ever- 
ard, how dare you?"^ 

Sir Everard broke into a peal of boyish laughter that 
made the room ring. 

“ I don't believe she’s in men's clothes^!" exclaimed Mil- 
dred, suddenly. “ Honorine told me robbers must have 
been in my dressing-room last night-^half my things were 
stolen. I understand it now — Everard was the robber." 

The young man got up and walked toward the door. 

“I am going for her, mother. Remember she is friend- 
less, and that she saved your son's life. ' ’ " 

He quitted the room with the last word. That claim, 
he knew, was one his devoted mother, with all her imperi- 
ous pride, would never repudiate. 

“Oh!" she said, lying back in her chair pale and faint, 
“ to think what might have happened!" ' 

As she spoke her son re-entered the room, and by his 
side a young lady — so stately, so majestic in her dark 
beauty, that involuntarily the mother and daughter arose. 

“ My mother, this young lady saved my life. Try and 
thank her for me. Lady Kingsland, Miss Silver." 

Surely some subtle power of fascination invested this 
dark daughter of the earth. The liquid dark e 5 ^es lifted 
themselves in mute appeal to the great lady's face, and 


THE baronet's bride. 73 

then the proudest woman in England opened her arms 
with a sudden im^Dulse and took the outcast to her bosom. 

“ 1 can never thank you/' she murmured. “ The serv- 
ice you have rendered me is beyond all words." 

An hour later Sybilla went slowly back to her room. KShe 
had breakfasted Ute-a-tete with my lady and her daugh- 
ter, while Sir Everard, in scarlet coat and cord and tops, 
had mounted his bonny bay and ridden oil to Lady Louise 
and the fox-hunt, and to his fate, though he knew it not. 
And in that hour the subtle fascination had wrought its 
spell. 

“ Keally, Mildred," my lady said, “ a most delightful 
young person, truly. Do you know, if she does not suc- 
ceed in finding her friends I should like to retain her as 
a companion?" 

In her own room Sybilla Silver stood before the glass, 
and she smiled back at her own image. An evil, sardonic 
smile it was,^ that Lucifer himself might have worn. 

So, my lady," she said, “ you walk into the trap with 
your eyes open, too — you who are old enough to know bet- 
ter? My handsome face and black eyes and smooth tongue 
stand me in their usual good stead. And I saved Sir Ever- 
ard King-land's life! Poor fools! A thousnd times bet- 
ter for you all if I had let that midnight assassin shoot him 
down like a dog!" 


CHAPTER X. 

A SHAFT FROM CUPID'S QUIVER. 

It was fully ten o'clock, and the hunting-party were 
ready to start, when Sir Everard Kingsland joined them, 
looking handsome and happy as a young prince in his very 
becoming hunting costume. , 

The meet was at Brithlow Brake, and half a dozen gen- 
tlemen, who had dropped in on their way to cover, were 
grouped picturesquely around the ladies. 

- Of course the young baronet's first look was for Lady 
Louise— he scarcely glanced at the rest. She was just being 
assisted into the saddle by the devoted George Gros^enor, 
but she turned to Sir Everard with the sweet smile he had 
learned to know so well, and graciously held out her gaunt- 
leted hand. 

“ Once more," she said, “almost late. Laggard! I 


74 THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

shall quarrel with you one of these days if you do not learn 
to be more punctual.” 

“ You will never have to reproach me again,” he said, 
gallantly. “ Had 1 known you would have honored my 
absence by a thought, you should not have had to reproach 
me now.” 

“ Very pretty, indeed. Sir Everard. But don’t waste 
your time paying compliments this morning. Thanks, Mr. 
Grosvenor; that will do. For whom are you looking. Sir 
Everard.^ Lady Carteret? Oh, she is going, to see as 
much of the fun as she can from the carriage, with some 
other ladies. Miss Hunsden and myself are the only ones 
who intend to ride. By the way, 1 hope Sir Galahad will 
uphold his master’s reputation to-day. He must do his 
very best, or Whirlwind will beat him. ” 

At that instant a red-coated young gentleman joined 
them, in an evident state of excitement. 

“ I say, Kingsland, who’s that girl on the splendid roan? 
She sits superbly, and is stunningly handsome’ besides. I 
beg your pardon. Lady Louise — perhaps you know. ” 

Lady Louise laughed — her soft, malicious laugh. 

“ Lord Ernest Strathmore is excited on the subject. 
That young lady is Miss Harriet Hunsden. Don’t lose 
your head, my lord. One gentleman possesses that heart-, 
and all the rest of you may sigh in vain. ” 

“ Indeed! And who is the fortunate possessor?” 

“Daptain Hunsden, her father. There he is by her side 
now.” 

At the first mention of her name Sir Everard Kingsland 
had turned sharply around and beheld — his fate. But he 
did not know it. Who was to tell him that that tall, im- 
perial-looking girl with the gold-brown hair, the creamy 
skin, the great gray eyes, and slender shape, was to over- 
turn the whole scheme of the universe for him — to drive 
him blind, and mad with the frenzy men call love? He 
only saw a handsome, spirited-looking girl, sitting a mag- 
nificent roan horse as easily as if it had been an arm-chair, 
and talking animatedly to a stalwart soldierly man with 
white hair and mustache. 

As he glanced away from his prolonged stare he met the 
piercing gaze of Lady Louise’s turquois-blue eyes. 

“ tUy Brute f” she cried, gayly. “Oh, my pro- 
phetic soul! Did 1 not warn you, Sir Everard? Did I not 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


75 


foretell that tjie dashing damsel in the scarlet habit would 
play the mischief with your fox-hunting hearts? No, no! 
never deny the soft impeachment! But I tell you, as I 
told Lord Ernest, it is of no use. She is but seventeen, 
and ‘ ower young to marry yet. ^ 

Before Sir Everard could retort, the cry of “ Here they 
come!^^ proclaimed the arrival of the hounds, and as the 
huntsman passed he cast rather surly glances at the two 
mounted ladies with pleasant inward visions of their head- 
ing the fox and being in the way. 

The hounds were put into the gorse, and the red-coats 
began to move out of the field into the lane. Sir Everard 
and Lady Louise with them. 

A loud “ Halloo!^^ rang through the air; the hounds 
came with a rushing roar over a fence. 

“ There he is!’^ cried a chorus of voices, as the fox flew 
over the ground. 

And at the same instant Whirl wind tore by like its name- 
sake, with the handsome girl in the saddle upright as a 
dart. Away went Sir Galahad helter skelter, side by side 
with the roan. Lady Louise and .her sedate nag were left 
hopelessly behind. 

On and on and on like the wind Whirlwind flew the 
fences, and Miss Hunsden sat in her saddle like a queen on 
her throne, never swerving. 

The young baronet, even in the fierce heat of the hunt, 
could see the beautiful glowing face, the flashing gray eyes, 
and the lances of light flickering in the gold -brown hair. 
Side by side Sir Galahad and Whirlwind darted to the end 
of the fourth inclosure. 

Then came a change — a wall of black, heavy thorn rose 
ahead, which no one was mad enough to face. A horrible 
wide ditch was on the near side, and Heaven knows what 
on the other. 

The baronet pulled his bay, violently to the right and 
looked to see the dashing huntress follow. But, no; the 
blood of Miss Hunsden and the “ red-roan steed ’’ was up, 
and straight they went at that awful pace, scorning to 
swerve an inch. 

“For God^s sake. Miss Hunsden!’^ cried the voice of 
Lord Ernest Strathmore, “don't try that!" 

But he might as well have spoken to the cataract of 
Niagara. With a tremendous rush W^hirlwind charged the 


76 THE baronet’s bride. 

place. There was a horrible crash — another — and a plunge 
downward. 

Sir Everard turned sick with horror; but the magni^- 
cent Whirlwind settled into his stride, and the girl recov- 
ered her balance in the very instant, and away again like 
the wind. 

“ Splendidly done, by Jove!” cried Lord Ernest, his 
eyes ablaze. “ J never saw a lady ride before like that in 
all my life.” 

Sir Everard dashed on. His horse was on his mettle; 
but, do what he would, the slender, girlish figure, and 
superb roan kept ahead. Whirlwind took hedges and 
ditches before him, disdaining to turn to the right or left, 
and after a sharp run of an hour. Miss Hunsden had the 
glory and happiness of being one of the successful few up 
at the finish in time to see the fox, quite dead, held over 
the huntsman’s head, with the hounds hanging expectant 
around. 

Every eye turned upon the heroine of the hour, and loud 
were the canticles chanted in her honor. The master of 
the hounds himself rode up, all aglow with admiration. 

“ Miss Hunsden,” he sai^ “ I never in all my life saw 
a lady ride as you rode to-day. There are not half a dozen 
men in Devonshire who would have faced those fences as 
you did. I sincerely hope you will frequently honor our 
field by your presence and matchless riding.” 

Miss Hunsden bowed easily and smiled, showing a row 
of dazzling teeth. 

And then her father came up, his soldierly old face 
aglow. 

“ Harrie, my dear, I am proud of you! You led us all 
to-day. I wouldn’t have taken that nasty place myself, 
and I didn’t believe even Whirlwind could do it.” 

Then George Grosvenor and Lord Ernest and the rest of 
the men crowded around, and compliments poured in in a 
deluge. 

Sir Everard held himself aloof — disgusted, nauseated — 
or so he told himself. 

“ Such an unwomanly exhibition! Such a daring, mas- 
culine leap! And see how she sits and smiles on those 
empty-headed fox-hunters, like an Amazonian queen in her 
court! How different from Lady Louise! And yet! good 
heavens! how royally beautiful she is!” 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


77 


“Alone, Kiugsland?" exclaimed a voice at his elbow; 
and glancing around he saw Lord Carteret “ What do 
you think of our pretty Di Vernon? You don't often see 
a lady ride like that. Why don't you pay your respects? 
Don't know her, eh? Come alone; I'll present you." 

Sir Everard's heart gave a sudden plunge, quite unac- 
countably. Without a word he rode up to where the gray- 
eyed enchantress held her magic circle. 

“ Harrie, my dear,'’ said the elderly nobleman, “ 1 bring 
a worshiper who hovers aloof and gazes in speechless ad- 
miration. Let me present my young friend, Sir Everard 
Kingsland, Miss Hunsden." 

Sir Everard took off his hat, and bent to his saddle-bow. 
The clear gray eyes and sparkling, smile-lit face turned 
their entrancing brightness upon him, and again his heart 
went in tumultuous plunges against his ribs. 

“ Sir Everard Kingsland!" cried Captain Hunsden, 
cordially. “ Son of my old friend. Sir Jasper, I’ll be 
sworn! My dear boy, hovv are you? I knew your father 
well. We were at Rugby together, and sworn companions. 
Harrie, this is the son of my oldest friend." 

“ Papa's friends are all mine!" 

The voice was clear and sweet as the beaming eyes. She 
held out her hand with a frank grace, and Sir Everard took 
it, its light touch thrilling to the core of his heart. She 
was only a madcap, a hoiden — a youthful Amazon who 
took hideous leaps and rode after hounds — but, for all that, 
she was beautiful as a Greek goddess, and — his time had 
come. 

Sir Everard Kingsland rode back to Carteret Park be- 
side the Indian officer and his daughter as a man might 
ride in a trance. Surely within an hour the whole world 
had been changed! 'He rode on air instead of solid soil, 
and the sunshine of heaven was not half so brilliant as 
Harriet Hunsden's smile. 

“ Confess now. Sir Everard," she said, laughingly cut- 
ting short the compliments he tried to utter, “ you were 
shocked and scandalized. I saw it in your face. Oh, 
don't deny it, and don't tell polite fibs! I always shock 
])eople, and rather enjoy it than otherwise." 

“Harriet!" her father said, reproving^. “She is a 
spoiled madcap. Sir Everard, and I am afraid the fault is 
mine. She has been everywhere with me in her seventeen 


78 


THE BAKONET^S BRIDE. / 

years of life — freezing amid the snows of Canada and 
ing alive under the broiling sun of India. And the insult 
is — what you see. ” ( 

“ The result is— perfection!’^ 

“ Papa/’ Miss Hunsden said, turning her sparkling face 
to her father, “ for Sir Everard’s sake, pray change the 
subject. If you talk of me, he will feel in duty bound to 
pay compliments; and really, after such a fast run, it is too 
much to expect of any man. There! I see Lady Louise 
across the brook yonder. I will leave you gentlemen to 
cultivate one another. Allans, messieurs 

One fleeting, backward glance of the bewitching face, a 
saucy smile and a wave of the hand, and Whirlwind had 
leaped across the brook and ambled on beside the sober 
charger of Lady Louise. 

“ Every one has been talking of your riding, Miss Huns- 
den,” Lady Louise said. “1 am nearly beside myself 
with envy. Lord Ernest Strathmore says you are the 
most graceful equestrienne he ever saw.” 

“ His lordship is very good. I wish I could return the 
compliment, but his chestnut balked shamefully, and 
came home dead beat!” 

Lord Ernest was within hearing distance of the clear, 
girlish voice, but he only laughed good-naturedly. 

“ As you are strong, be merciful. Miss Hunsden. We 
can’t all perform miracles on horseback, you know. I 
came an awful cropper at that ugly hedge, to be sure, and 
your red horse went over me like a blaze of lightning! 
You owe me some atonement, and — of course you are go- 
ing to the ball to-night?” 

“ Of course! I like balls even better than hunting.” 

“ And she dances better than she rides,” put in h^er fa- 
ther, coming up. 

“ She is perfection in everything she undertakes, I am 
certain,” Lord Ernest said, salaaming profoundly; “and 
for that atonement 1 speak of. Miss Hunsden, I claim the 
first waltz.” 

They rode together to Carteret Park. Sir Everard had 
the privilege of assisting her to dismount. 

“ You must be fatigued. Miss Hunsden,” he said. 
“ With a ball in prospective, after your hard gallop, 1 
should recommend a long rest.” 

Miss Hunsden laughed gayly. 


THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 


79 


“ Sir Everard, 1 don^fc know the meaning of that word 
‘ fatigue. ’ I never was tired in my life, and I am ready 
for the ball to-night, and a steeple-chase to-morrow, if you 
like.’^ 

She tripped off as she spoke, with a mischievous glance. 
She wanted to shock him, and she succeeded. 

“ Poor girl!” he thbught, with a little shudder, as he 
slowly turned homeward, “she is really dreadful. She 
nevel’ had a mother, I suppose, and wandering over the 
world with her father has made her a perfect savage. 
How refreshing is Lady Louise’s repose of manner in com- 
parison! "She is truly to be pitied — so exceedingly beauti- 
ful as she is, too!” 

Sir Everard certainly was very sorry for that hoidenish 
Miss Hunsden. He thought, of her while dressing for din- 
ner, to the utter exclusion of everything else, and he talked 
of her all through that meal “more in sorrow than in 
anger.” 

Sybilla Silver, quite like one of the family already, made 
the fourth at the table, and listened with greedy ears and 
eager black eyes. 

“ You ought to call, mother,” the baronet said, “ you 
and Mildred. Common politeness requires it. Captain 
Hunsden was my father’s most intimate friend, and this 
wild girl stands sadly in need of some matronly adviser.” 

“ 1 remember Captain Hunsden,” Lady Kingsland said, 
thoughtfully; “ and I remember this girl, too, when she 
was a child of three or four years. He was a very hand- 
some man, I recollect, and he married away in Canada or 
the United States. There was some mystery about that 
marriage — something vague and unpleasant — no one knew 
what. She ought to be pretty, this daughter. ” 

“ Pretty!” S^ir Everard exclaimed; “ she is beautiful as 
an angel! I never saw such eyes or such a smile in the 
whole course of my life. ” 

“Indeed!” his mother said, coldly— ■“ indeed ! Not 
even excepting Lady Louise’s?” 

Sir Everard blushed like a school-boy. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Lady Louise is altogether different! I didn’t mean 
any comparison. But you will see her to-night at Lady 
Carteret’s ball, and can. judge for yourself. She is a mere 
child — sixteen or seventeen, I believe.”. 


80 


THE baronet's bride. 


“And Lady Louise is five-and-twenfcy," said Mildi;6d, 
with awful accuracy. / 

“ She does not look twenty!" exclaimed my lady, 
sharply. “ There are few young ladies nowadays h^lf so 
elegant and graceful as Lady Louise." 

Miss Silver’s large black eyes glided from one to the 
other with a sinister smile iu their shining depths. Her 
soft voice broke in at this jarring juncture and sweetly 
turned the disturbed current of conversation, and Sir 
Everard understood, and gave her a grateful glance. 

The young baronet had gone to rnanv balls in his life- 
time, but never had he been so painfully particular before. 
He drove Edward, his valet, to the verge of madness with 
liis whims, and left off at last in sheer desperation and al- 
together dissatisfied with the result. 

“I look like a guy, I know," he muttered, angrily, 
“ and that pert little Hunsden is just the sort of girl to 
make satirical comments on a man if his neck-tie is awry or 
his hair unbecoming. Not that 1 care what she says; but 
one hates to feel he is a laughing-stock." 

The ball-room was brilliant with lights, and music, and 
flowers, and diamonds, and beautiful faces, and magnificent 
toilets when the Kingsland party entered. 

Lady Carteret, in velvet robes, stood receiving her 
guests. Lady Louise, with white azaleas in her hair and 
dress, stood stately and graceful, looking from tip to toe 
what she was— the descendant ot a race of “ highly- wed, 
highly-fed, highly-bred " aristocrats. 

But at neither of them Sir Edward glanced twice. His 
eyes wandered around and lighted at last on a divinity in 
a cloud of misty white, crowned with dark-green ivy leaves 
aglitter with diamond drops. 

There she stood, her white shoulders rising exquisitely 
out of the foamy lace, leaning in a careless, graceful way 
against a marble column, holding her bouquet, and looking 
like some lovely fairy queen. You could not imagine her 
the dashing huntrdss of the morning. 

While he gazed. Lord Ernest Strathmore came up, said 
something, and whirled her off in the waltz. Away they 
flew. Lord Ernest waltzed to perfection, and she — a 
French woman or a fairy only could float like that. 

A fierce, jealous pang griped his heart; a second, and 


THE BAKONET^S BKIDE. 


81 


they were out of sight. Sir Everard roused himself from 
his trance and went up to his hostess to p^y his respects. 

“ Ah!’^ Lady Carteret said/ a little spitefully, “the 
spell is broken at last! There was no mistaking that look. 
Sir Everard! My dear Lady Kingsland — laughing, but 
malicious still — “ take care of your son. Ihn afraid he^s 
going to fall in love. 


CHAPTER XL 

“for love will still be lord of all.^^ 

My Lady Carteret^s ball was a brilliant success, and, 
fairest where all were fair, Harrie Hunsden shone down all 
competitors. As she floated down the long ball-room on 
the arm of Lord Ernest, light as a swimming-sprite, a 
hundred admiring male eyes followed, and a hundred fair 
patrician bosoms throbbed with bitterest envy. 

“ The little Hunsden is in full feather to-night,^"' lisped 
George Grosvenor, coming up with his adored Lady Louise 
on his arm. “ There is nothing half so beautiful in the 
room, with one exception,’’ a sidelong bovv^ to his fair com- 
panion. “And only look at Kingsland! Oh, he’s done 
for, to a dead certainty!” 

Sir Everard started up rather confusedly. He had been 
leaning against a pillar, gazing after the divinity in the ivy 
crown, with his heart in his eyes, and Lady Louise was the 
last person in the universe he had been thinking of. With 
a guilty feeling of shame he turned and met the icily 
formal bow of Earl Carteret’s daughter. 

“We are losing our waltz, Mr. Grosvenor,” she said, 
frigidly, “ and we are disturbing Sir Everard Kingsland. 
The ‘ Guards’ Waltz ’ is a great deal too delightful to be 
missed.” 

“ I fancied the first wal'tz was to be mine. Lady Louise,” 
Sir Everard said, with an awful sense of guilt. 

Lady Louise’s blue eyes flashed fire. Had looks been 
lightning, that glance would have slain him. 

“ With Miss Hunsden, perhaps— certainly not with me. 
Come, Mr. Grosvenor.” 

It was the first spiteful shaft Lady Louise had ever con- 
descended to launch, and she bit her lip angrily an instant 
after, as George whirled her away. , 

“ Idiot that I am,” she thought, “ to show him I can 


82- 


THE Bx\.RONET'S BRIDE. ^ 

stoop to be piqued — to show him I can be jealous — to show 
him 1 care for. him like this! He will get to fancy I love 
him next, and he — he has had neither eyes nor ears for 
any one else since he saw Harrie Hunsden this morning/^ 

A sharp, quibk pain pierced the proud breast of the 
earl ’s daughter, for she did love him, and she knew it — as 
much as it was in her lymphatic nature to love at all. 
And, with the knowledge, her woman^s anger rose. 

“ I will never forgive him — never her white teeth 
clinched. “The dastard — the traitor — to play the de- 
voted to me, and then desert me at the first sight of a 
madcap on horseback. I will never stoop to say one civil 
word to him again. 

Lady Louise kept her vow. Sir Everard, penitent and 
remorseful, strove to make his peace in vain. 

Lord Carteret^s daughter listened icily, sent barbed 
shafts tipped with poison from her tongue in reply, danced 
frigidly with him once, and steadily refused to dance 
again. 

She let George Grosvenor — poor moth! — flutter into the 
flame and singe his wings worse than ever. With him she 
went to"^ supper, and one of the white azaleas shone tri- 
umphant in his black coat, as a reward of merit. 

Sir Everard gave it up at last and went in search of 
Miss Hunsden, and was accepted by that young lad^ on 
the spot for a redowa. 

“ I thought you would have asked me ages ago,^’ said 
Harrie, with delicious frankness. “ I saw you were a good 
dancer, and that is more than 1 can say for any other gen- 
tleman present, except Lord Ernest. Ah, Lord Ernest 
can waltz! It is the height of ball-room bliss to be his 
partner. But you stayed away to quarrel with Lady 
Louise, 1 suppose?’^ 

“ I have not been quarreling with Lady Louise,’^ replied 
Sir Everard, feeling guiltily conscious, though, all the 
same. 

“.No? It looked like it, then. She snubs you in the 
most merciless manner, and you— oh, what a penitent face 
you wore the last time you approached her! I thought she 
was a great deal too uplifted for flirting, but what do you 
call that with George Grosvenor?’^ 

“ George Grosvenor is a very old friend. Here is our. 
redowa. Miss Hunsden. Never mind Lady Louise. 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 83 

His arm encircled her waist, and away they flew. Sir 
Everard could dance as well as Lord Ernest, and quite as 
many admiring eyes followed him and the bright little 
belle of the ball. Mr. Grosvenor pulled his tawny mus- 
tache with inward delight. 

“ Handsome couple, eh, Carteret?" he said to his host; 
“it is an evident case of spoons there. Well, the boy is 
only two-and-twenty, and at that age we all lost our heads 
easily." 

Two angry red spots, quite foreign to her usual com- 
plexion, burned on Lady Louise’s fair cheeks. She turned 
abruptly away and left the gentlemen. 

“ Little Harrie is pretty enough to excuse an older man 
losing his head," Lord Carteret answered, looking after 
his sister a little uneasily; “ but it would not suit Lady 
Kingsland’s book at all. The Hunsden is poorer than a 
church-mouse, and though of one of our best old-country 
families, the pedigree bears no proportion to my lady’s 
pride. A duke’s daughter, in her estimation, would be 
none too good: for her darling son. See, she is frowning 
ominously in the distance now!" 

Mr. Grosvenor smiled satirically. 

“ She is a wonderful woman— my lady — but I fancy she 
is matched at last. If Kingsland sets his heart on this 
latest fancy, all the powers of earth and Hades will not 
move him, for verily he comes of a dogged and determined 
race. Do you recollect that little affair of Miss Kingsland 
and poor Douglas of the — th? My lady put a stop to 
that, and he was shot, poor fellow, before Balaklava. But 
the son and heir is quite another story. Apropos, I must 
ask little Mildred to dance. Adw, Carteret!" 

“ How noiseless falls the foot of time 
That only treads on flowers!” 

The ball whirled on — the hours went by like bright, 
swift flashes, and, from the moment of the redowa, to Sir 
Everard Kingsland it was one brief, intoxicating dream of 
delirium. My Lady Kingsland’s maternal frowns, my 
Lady Louise’s imperial scorn— all were forgotten. She 
was’ a madcap and a hoiden— a wild, hare-brained, fox- 
hunting Amazon— all that was shocking and unwomanly, 
but, at the same time, all that was bright, beautiful, en- 
trancing, irresistible. His golden-haired ideal, with the 


84 


THE BAROKET's BRIDE. 


azure eyes and seraphic smile, soft of voice, timid of man- 
ner, a cross between an angel and Tennyson^s “ Maiid,^^ 
was forgotten, and this gray-eyed enchantress, robed in 
white, crowned with ivy, dancing desperately the whole 
night long, set brain and heart reeling in the mad taran- 
tella of love. 

It was over at last. The gray and dismal dawn of the 
November morning stole chilly through the curtained 
casements. A half-blown rose from Miss Hunsden^s bou- 
quet bloomed in Sir Everard’s button-hole, and it was Sir 
Everard^s blissful privilege to fold Miss Hunsden^s furred 
mantle around those pearly shoulders. 

Other beauties might droop and pale in the ghostly 
morning light, but, after eight hours’ consecutive dancing. 
Miss Hunsden’s roses were unwilted. The bleak morning 
breeze blew her perfumed hair across his eyes, as she leaned 
on his arm and he handed her into the carriage. . 

“ We shall expect to see you at Hunsden Hall,” the In- 
dian officer said, heartily. “ Your father’s sou. Sir Ever- 
ard, will ever be a most welcome guest,” 

“ Yes,” said Harrie, leaning forward coquettishly, 
“ come by and by and inquire how my health is after 
dancing all night. Etiquette demands that much, and 
I’m a great stickler for etiquette.” 

“ Sir Everard would never have discovered it, I am cer- 
tain, my dear, if you had not told him.” 

Sir Everard ’s blue eyes looked eloquently into the spark- 
ling gray ones; his handsome, happy face was all aglow. 

“ A thousand thanks! I shall only be too delighted to 
avail myself of both invitations. Miss Hunsden, remem- 
ber— you said by and by, and by and by I shall come.” 

Sir Everard went home to Kingsland Court as he never 
had gone home before. The whole world was couleur cle 
the bleak November morning and the desokte high- 
road — sweeter, brighter than the Elysian Fields. 

How beautiful she’ was I how the starry eyes had flashed! 
how the rosy lips 'had smiled! Half the men at the ball 
were madly in love with her, he knew; and she — she had 
danced twice with him, all night, for once with any one 
else. 

It was a very silent drive. Lady Kingsland sat back 
among her wraps in displeased silence; Mildred never 
talked much, and the young baronet was lost in blissful 


85 


THE BABOKET’S BRIDE. 

ecstasy a great deal too deep for words. He could not 
even see his mother was angry — ho never gave one poor 
thought to Lady Louise. Immersed in the sublime ego- 
tism of youth and love, the whole world was bounded by 
Harriet Hunsden. 

Sybilla Silver was^ip and waiting in Lady Kingsland’s 
dressing-room. A bright fire, and a cheery cup of tea, 
and a smiling face greeted her fagged ladyship with pleas- 
ant surprise. 

Really, Miss Silver,^'’ she said, languidly, “this is 
very thoughtful of you. Where is my maid.^^^ 

“ Asleep, my lady. Pray let me fulfill her duties this 
once. 1 hope you enjoyed the ball?’^ 

“ I never enjoyed a ball less in my life,^^ my lady re- 
plied, sharply. “ Pray make haste — I am in no mood for 
talking.-’^ 

Sybilla^s swift, deft fingers disrobed the moody lady, 
loosened the elaborate structure of hair, brushed it out, 
and prepared my lady for bed; and all the while she sat 
frowning angrily at the fire. 

“ There was a young lady at the ball — a Miss Hunsden,^^ 
she said, at last, breaking Out in spite of herself — “and 
the exhibition she made was perfectly disgraceful. Bold, 
odious little minx! Miss Silver, if you see my son before 
I get up to-day, tell him I wish particularly for his com- 
pany at breakfast. 

“ Yes, my lady,^'’ Miss Silver said, docilely; and my lady 
did not see the smile that flickered and faded with the 
words. 

She understood it all perfectly. Sir Everard had broken 
from the maternal apron-string, had deserted the standard 
of Lady Louise, and gone over to this “ bold, odious 
Miss Hunsden. 

Sybilla dutifully delivered the message the first time she 
met the baronet, A groom was holding Sir Galahad, 
and his master was just vaulting into the saddle. He 
turned away impatiently from the dark face and sweet 
voice. 

“It is impossible this morning,'^ he said, sharply. 
“ Tell Lady Kingsland 1 shall have the pleasure of meet- 
ing her at dinner. 

He rode away.^s he spoke, with the sudden conscious- 
ness that it was the first tirno he and that devoted mothei' 


86 THE baronet’s bride. 

had ever clashed. Thinking of her, he thought of her 
favorite. 

“ She wants to read me a tirade, I suppose, about her 
pet, Lady Louise,” he said to himself, rather sullenly. 

They would badger me into marrying her if they could. 
I never cared two straws for the dauglfter of Earl Carteret; 
she is frightfully and she’s three years older than 

1 am. 1 am glad I did not commit myself irrevocably to 
please my mother — a man should marry only to please 
himself. ” 

Sir Everard reached Hunsden Hall in time for luncheon. 
The old place looked deserted and ruined. The half-pay 
Indian officer’s poverty was visible everywhere — in the 
time-worn furniture, the neglected grounds, the empty- 
stables, and the meager staff of old-time servants. But 
the wealthy baronet surveyed the impoverished scene with 
a look of almost exultation. 

“ Captain Hunsden is so poor that he will be glad to 
marry his daughter to the first rich man who asks her. 
The Hunsden estate is strictly entailed to the next male 
heir; he has only his pay, and she will be left literally a 
beggar at his death.” 

His eyes flashed triumphantly at the thought. Harrie 
Hunsden stood in the sunshine on the lawn, with half a 
score of dogs, big and little, bouncing around her, more 
lovely, it seemed to the infatuated young baronet, in her 
simple home-dress, than ever. No trace of yesterday’s 
fatiguing hunt, or last night’s fatiguing dancing, was visi- 
ble in that radiant face. 

But just at that instant Captain Hunsden advanced to 
meet him, with Lord Ernest Strathmore by his side. 

“ What brings that idiot here?” Sir Everard thought, 
his face darkening. “ How absurdly early he must have 
ridden over!” 

He turned to Miss Hunsden and uttered the polite com- 
monplace proper for the occasion, feeling more at a loss 
for words than ever before in his life. 

“ I told you I never was fatigued,” the young lady said, 
playing with her dogs, and sublimely at her ease. “lam 
ready for a second hunt to-day, and a ball to-night, and a 
picnic the day after. I should have been a boy. It’s per- 
fectly absurd, my being a ridiculous girl, when I feel as if 


THE BAROKET’S bride. 87 

1 could lead a forlorn hope, or, like Alexander, conquer a 
world. Come to luncheon. 

“ Conquer a world — come to Luncheon? A pretty brace 
of subjects !’' said her father. 

“ Miss Hunsden is quite enable of conquering a worid 
without having been born anything so horrid as a boy,'’^ 
said Lord Ernest. ‘ ‘ There are bloodless conquests, where- 
in the conquerors of the world. are conquered themselves.'’-’ 

The baronet scowled. Miss Hunsden retorted saucily. 
She and Lord Ernest kept up a brilliant wordy war. 

He sat like a silent fool — like an imbecile, he said to 
himself, glowering malignantly. He was madly in love, 
and he was furiously jealous. What business had this 
ginger- whiskered young lordling interloping here? And 
how disgustingly self-assured and at home he was! He 
tried to talk to the captain, but it was a miserable failure, 
he knew, with his ears strained listening to them. 

It was a relief when a servant entered with the mail- 
bag. 

“ The mail reaches us late,^^ Captain Hunsden said, as 
he opened it. “ 1 like my letters with my breakfast.’^ 

“ Any for me, papa?’ ^ Harriet asked, breaking off . in 
her flirtation. 

“ One — from your governess in Paris, 1 think — and 
half a dozen for me.” 

He glanced carelessly at the superscriptions as he laid 
them down. But as he took the last he uttered a low cry; 
his face turned livid; he stared at it as if it had turned 
into a death’s-head in his hand. 

The two young men looked at him aghast. His daugh- 
ter rose up, very pale. 

“ Oh, papa—” - ' . _ 

She stopped in a sort of breathless affright. 

Captain Hunsden rose up. He made no apology. He 
walked to a window and tore open his letter with passion- 
ate haste. 

His daughter still stood — pale, breathless. 

Suddenly, with a hoarse, dreadful cry, he flung the let- 
ter from him, staggered blindly, and fell down in a fit. 

A girl’s shrill scream pierced the air. She sprung for- 
ward, thrust the letter into her bosom, knelt beside her 
father, and lifted his head. His face was dark purple, 


88 THE BAKOKET'S BRIDE. 

the blood oozed in trickling streams from his mouth and 
nostrils. 

All was confusion. They bore him to his room; a serv- 
ant was dispatched in mad haste for a doctor. Harriet 
bent over him, white as death. The two young men 
waited, pale, alarmed, confounded. 

. It was an hour before the doctor came — another before 
he left the sick man’s room. As he departed, Harriet 
Hunsden glided into the apartment where the young men 
waited, white as a spirit. 

“ He is out of danger; he is asleep. Pray leave us now. 
To-morrow he will be himself again. ” 

It was quite evident that she was used to these attacks. 
The young men bowed respectfully and departed; saluted 
each other coldly, as rivals do salute, and rode off in oppo- 
site directions. 

Sir Everard was in little humor, as he went slowly and 
moodily homeward, for his mother’s lecture. He was 
insanely jealous of Lord Ernest, and he was amazed and 
confounded by the mystery of the letter. 

“ There is some secret in Captain Hunsden’s life,” he 
thought, “ and his daughter shares it. Some secret, per- 
haps, of shame and disgrace — some bar sinister in their 
shield; and, good heavens! 1 am mad enough to love her 
— I, a Kingsland, of Kingsland, whose name and escutcheon 
are without a blot! What do I know of her antecedents 
or his.^ 'My mother spoke of some mystery in his past 
life; and there is a look of settled gloom in his face that 
nothing seems able to remove. Lord Ernest Strathmore, 
too — he must come to complicate matters. And he is in- 
fatuated with the girl — any one can see that. She is the 
most glorious creature the sun shines on; and if I don’t 
ask her to be my wife, she will be my Lady Strathmore 
before the moon wanes!” 


OHAPTEE XII. 

IklISS HUNSDEN SAYS “ NO.” 

Sir Everard found his mother primed and loaded; but 
she nursed her wrath throughout dinner, and it was not 
until they were in the drawing-room alone that she went 
off. He was so moodily distrait all through the meal that 


TITF, BATIONET'S BRIDE. 89 

ho never saw the voleano smoldering, and the Vesiiviau 
eruption took him altogether by surprise. Sybilla Silver 
saw the coming storm, and pricked up her ears in delight- 
ful expectation of a rousing scene; and quiet Mildred saw 
it, and shrunk sensitively. But both were spared the 
“ tempest in a tea-j)ot. The hail-storm of angry words 
clattered about the baronet-s ears alone. 

“ Your conduct has been disgraceful!"^ Lady Kingsland 
passionately cried — “ unworthy of a man of honor! You 
pay Lady Louise every attention; you make love to her in 
the most prononce manner, and at the eleventh hour you 
desert her for this forward little barbarian."" 

Sir Everard opened his large, blue, Saxon eyes in cool 
surprise. 

“ My dear mother, you mistake,"" he said, with perfect 
sang froicL . “ Lady Louise made love to me!"" 

“ Everard!"" 

Her voice absolutely choked with rage. 

“ It 'sounds conceited and foppish, I know,"" pursued 
the young gentleman; “ but you force me to it in self-de- 
fense. I never made love to Lady Louise, as Lady Louise 
can tell you, if you choose to ask. "" 

“ You never asked her in so many words, perhaps, to 
be your wife. Short of that, you have left nothing un- 
done."" 

Sir Everard thought of the dinner-party, of the moonlit 
balcony, of Heorge Grosvenor, and was guiltily silent. 

“ Providence must have sent him,"’ he thought, “ to 
save me in the last supreme moment. Pledged to Lady 
Louise, and madly in love with Harriet Hunsden, 1 should 
blow out my brains before sunset!"" 

“ You are silent,"" pursued his mother. “ Yoiir guilty 
conscience will not let you answer. You told me yourself, 
only two days ago, that but for George Grosvenor you 
would have asked her to be your wife."" . 

“Quite true,"" responded her son; “but who knows 
what a day may bring forth? Two days ago I was willing 
to marry Lady* Louise — to ask her, at least. Now, not all 
the wealth of the Indies, not the crown of the world, could 
tempt me."" 

“ Good heavens!"" cried my lady, goaded to the end of 
her patience; “ only hear him! Ho you mean to tell me, 
you absurd, mad-headed boy, that in one day you have 


90 . THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 

fallen hopelessly in love with this hare-brained, masculine 
Harriet Hunsden?^' 

Sir Everard^s fair face flushed angry red. 

“ I tell you nothing of the sort, madame; the inference 
is your own. But this I will say — I would rather marry 
Harriet Hunsden than any other woman under heaven 1 
She may be wild, as you say — hare-brained, perhaps (what- 
ever that means) — but then you will recollect that she is 
but seventeen. When she is five-and-twenty, she may be 
as sedate even as your model and favorite. If 1 prefer a 
girl of seventeen to a mature woman of twenty-five, even 
you can hardly bl^me me. Let Lady Louise take George 
Grosvenor. He is in love with her, which I never was; 
and ho has an earFs coronet in prospective, which I have 
not. As for me, I have done with this subject at once and 
forever. Even to you, my mother, 1 can not delegate my 
choice of a wife.^^ 

“ I will never receive Harriet Hunsden Lady Kings- 
land passionately cried. 

“ Perhaps you will never have the opportunity. She 
may prefer to become mistress of Strathmore Castle. 
Lord Ernest is her most devoted adorer. I have not asked 
her yet. The chances are a thousand to one she will re- 
fuse when I do./'' 

His mother laughed scornfully, but her eyes were ablaze. 

“ You mean to ask her, then?^^ 

“ Most assuredly.’^ 

She laughed again— a bitter, mirthless laugh. 

“ We'go fast, my friend! And you have hardly known 
this divinity four-and-twenty hours. 

“ Love is not a plant of slow growth. Like Jonah’s 
gourd, it springs up, fully matured, in an hour.’’ 

“'Does it? My son is better versed in amatory floricult- 
ure Than 1 am. But before you ask Miss Hunsden to be- 
come Lady Kingsland, had you not better inquire who her 
mother was?” 

The baronet thought of the letter, and turned very pale. 

“Her mother? I do not understand. What of her 
mother?” 

“ Only this ” — Lady Kingsland arose as she spoke, her 
face deathly white, her pale eyes glittering— “ the mother 
is a myth and a mystery. Keport says Captain Hunsden 
was married in America — no one knows where — and 


THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 


91 


America is a wide place. No one ever saw the wife; no 
one ever heard Miss Hunsden speak of her mother; no one 
ever heard of that mother^s death. I leave Sh Everard 
Kingsland to draw his own inferences.’^ 

She swept from the room with a mighty rustle of silk. 

A dark figure crouching on the rug, with its ear to the 
key-hole, barelj had time to whisk behind a tall Indian 
cabinet as the door opened. 

It was Miss Sybilla Silver, who was already asserting her 
prerogative as amateur lady’s-maid. 

My lady shut herself up in her own room for the re- 
mainder of the evening, too angry and mortified for words 
to tell. It was the first quarrel she and her idolized son 
ever had, and the disappointment of all her ambitious hoiies 
left her miserable enough. 

But scarcely so miserable as Sir Everard. To be hope- 
lessly in love on such short notice was bad enough; to have 
the dread of a rejection hanging over him was worse; but 
to have this dark mystery looming horribly in the horizon 
was worst of all. 

His mother’s insinuations alone would not have disturb- 
ed him; but those insinuations, taken in unison with Cap- 
tain Hunsden ’s mysterious illness of the morning, drove 
him nearly wild. 

“ And I dare not even ask,” he thought, ‘‘ or set my 
doubts at rest. Any inquiry from me, before proposing, ^ 
would be impertinent; and after proposing they would be 
too late. But one thing 1 am certain pf — if 1 lose Harrie 
Hunsden, I shall go mad!” 

Of course this angry ruffling of love’s current at the 
very outset only strengthened the stream. Opposition left ^ 
the young man tenfold more doggedly in love than ever, 
and he strode up and down the drawing-room like a melo- 
dramatic hero, grinding his teeth and glaring at vacancy, 
and longing with a fierce impotency to run away with 
Harrie Hunsden to-morrow, and never ask a question 
about her mother, and never see his own agaim 

While he tore up and down like a caged tiger, the door 
softly opened and his sister looked in. 

“ Alone, Everard?” she said, timidly. “ I thought 
mamma was with you.” 

“ Mamma has just gone to her room in a blessed tern- 


92 


THE BAROHET^S BRTDE. 


per/'’ answered her brother, savagely. “ Come in, Milly, 
and heJp me in this horrible scrape, if you can. 

“ Is it something about — Miss 'Hunsden?'’ hesitatingly. 
“ I thought mamma looked displeased at dinner. 

“ Displeased exclaimed the young man, with a short 
laugh; “ that is a mild way of putting it. Mamma is in- 
clined to play the Grand Mogul in my case as she did with 
you and poor Fred Douglas.^'’ 

“ Oh, brother!^^ 

Mildred Kingsland put out both hands and shrunk as if 
he had struck her. 

“ Forgive me, Milly. I^m a brute and you^re an angel, 
if there ever was one on earth! But IVe been hectored 
and lectured, and badgered and bothered until I’m fairly 
beside myself. She wants me to marry Lady Louise, and 
I won’t marry Lady Louise if she was the last woman 
alive. Milly, who was Miss Hunsden’s mother?” 

The murder was out.- He stood still, glaring fierce in- 
terrogation at his sister. 

“ Her mother? I’m sure I don’t know. I was quite a 
little girl when Captain Hunsden was here before, and 
Harrie was a pretty little curly-haired fairy of three years. 
I remember her so well. Captain Hunsden dined here 
once or twice, and I recollect perfectly how gloomy and 
morose his manner was. I was quite frightened at him. 
You were at Eton then, you know.” 

“ I know!” impatiently. “ I wish to Heaven I had not 
been. Boy as I was, I should have learned something. 
Did you never hear the cause of the captain’s abnormal 
gloom?” 

“ No; papa and mamma knew nothing, and Captain 
Hunsden kept his own secrets. They had heard of his 
marriage some four or five years before — a low marriage, 
it was rumored — an actress, or something equally objec- 
tionable. Little Harrie knew nothing — at three years it 
was hardly likely; but she never prattled of her mother as 
children of that age usually do. There is some mystery 
about Captain Hunsden’s wife, Everard, and — pardon me 
— if you like Miss Hunsden, you ought to have it cleared 
up.” 

Everard laughed — a harsh, strident laugh. 

“ If I like Miss Hunsden, my dear little non-committal 
Milly. Am I to go to Hunsden Hall and say to its mas- 


THE BAKOifET'S BRIDE. 93 

ter, ‘ Look here, Captain Hunsden, give me proofs of your 
marriage — tell me all about your mysterious wife. You 
have a very handsome, high-spirited daughter, but before 
I commit myselE by falling in love with her, 1 want to 
make sure there was no tarnish on the late Mrs. Huns- 
den^s wedding-ring. ’ Captain Harold Hunsden is a proud 
man. How do you think he will like the style of that?^’ 

Mildred stood silent, looking distressed. 

“ I wish I had married Lady Louise a month ago, and 
gone out of the country he burst out, vehemently. “J 
wish I had never seen this girl. She is everything that is 
objectionable — a half-civilized madcap^shrouded in mys- 
tery and poverty — danced over the world in a baggage- 
wagon. I have quarreled with my mother for the first 
time on her account. But I love her — 1 love her with all 
my heart — and I shall go mad or shoot myself if 1 don’t 
make her my wife!” 

He flung himself impetuously, face downward, on the 
sofa. Mildred stood pallid and scared in the middle of the 
floor, in the extremity of helpless distress. Once he lifted 
his head and looked at her. 

“ Go away, Milly!” he said, hoarsely. “ I’m a savage 
to frighten you so! Leave me; 1 shall be better alone.” 

And Mildred, not knowing in the least what else to do, 
went. 

Next morning, hours before Lady Kingsland was out of 
bed. Lady Kingsland ’s son was galloping over the breezy 
hills and golden downs. An hour’s hard run, and he 
made straight for Hunsden Hall. The hand of fate drove 
him impetuously on, and he was powerless to resist. 

Miss Hunsden was taking a constitutional up and down 
the terrace overlooking the sea, with three big dogs. She 
turned round at Sir Everard’s approach and greeted him 
quite cordially. She was rather pale, but perfectly com- 
j)Osed. 

“Papa is so much better this morning,” she said, 
“ that he is coming down to breakfast. He is subject to 
these attacks, and they never last long. Any exciting 
news overthrows him altogether.” 

“ That letter contained" exciting news, then?” Sir Evei> 
ard could not help saying. 

“ I presume so — I did not read it. How placid the sea 
looks this morning, aglitter in the sunlight. And yet I 


94 THE BAKONET’s BRIDE. 

have been in the middle of the Atlantic when the waves 
ran mountains high.^^ 

But the moody young baronet was not going to talk of 
the sea. 

“ You are quite a heroine. Miss Hunsden, and a won- 
derful traveler for a seventeen-year-old young lady. You 
see, 1 know your age; but at seventeen a young lady does 
not mind, I bMieve. How long have you been in England 
this time?’^ 

He.^poke with careless adroitness; Miss Hunsden an- 
swered, frankly enough: 

“ Five months. You were abroad, I think, at the 
time.'^ 

“ Yes. And now you have come for good, I hope — as 
if Miss Hunsden could come for anything else.^^ 

“It all depends on papa’s health,” replied Harriet, 
quietly ignoring the compliment. “ I should like to stay, 

I confess. 1 am very, very fond of England.” 

“Of course — as you should be of your native place. ” 
He was firing nearer the target. 

“ England is not my native place,” said Harriet, calm- 
ly. “I was born at Gibraltar. ” 

“ At Gibraltar! You surprise me. Of course your 
mother was not a native of Gibraltar?” 

His heart throbbed fast. Was he treading on forbidden 
ground? Would the great gray eyes flash forked lightning 
as he knew they could flash? No; Miss Hunsden heard 
the adroit question and made no sign. 

“ Of course not. My mother was an American — born 
and bred and married in New York.” 

Here was an explicit statement. His pulses stood still a 
moment, and then went on fast and furious. 

“1 suppose you scarcely, remember her?” 

“ Scarcely,” the young lady repeated, dr 5 dy; “since I 
never saw her.” 

“ Indeed! She died then — ” 

“At my birth— yes. And now. Sir Everard ” — the 
bright, clear eyes flashed suddenly full upon him — “ is the' 
catechism almost at an end?” 

He absolutely recoiled. If ever guilt was written on a 
human face, it was readily written on his. 

“ Ah!” Miss Hunsden said, scornfully, “ you thought 1 
couldn’t find you out— you thought I couldn't see your 


95 


THE baronet's BEIDE. 

drift. Have a better opinion of my powers of penetration 
next time. Sir Everard. My poor father, impoverished in 
purse, broken in health, sensitive in spirit, chooses to hide 
his wounds — chooses not to wear his heart on his sleeve for 
the Devonshire daws to peck at — chooses never to speak of 
his lost wife — and, lo! all the gossips of the country are 
agape for the news. She was an actress, was she not. Sir 
Everard? And when I ride across the country, at the heels 
of the hounds, it is only the spangles, and glitter, and the- 
ater glare breaking out again. 1 could despise it in others, 
but I did think better things of the son of my father's 
oldest friend! Good-morning, Sir Everard." 

She turned proudly away. \In that instant, as she tow- 
ered above him, superb in her beauty and her pride, all 
other earthly considerations were swept away like cobwebs. 
If the world had been his, he would have laid it at her 
regal feet. 

“ Stay, Harriet — Miss Hunsden! Stop — for pity's sake, 
stop and hear me! I have been presuming — impertinent. 
I have deserved your rebuke." , 

“ You have," she said, haughtily. 

“ But 1 asked those questions because the nameless in- 
sinuations I heard drove me mad— because 1 love you, I 
worship you, with all my heart and soul. " 

Like an impetuous torrent the words burst out. He 
actually flung himself on his knees before her, in the boy- 
ish abandon of his love and delirium. 

“ My beautiful, queenly, glorious Harriet! I love you 
as man never loved woman before!" 

Miss Hunsden stood aghast, staring, absolutely con- 
founded. The passionate words rained down upon her in 
a stunning shower. 

For one instant she stood thus; then all was forgotten in 
her sense of the ludicrous. She leaned against a tree, and 
set up a shout of laughter long and clear. 

“ Oh, good gracious!" cried Miss Hunsden, as soon as 
she was able, to speak; “ who ever head the like of this? 
Sir Everard Kingsland, get up. 1 forgive you everything 
for this superhuman joke. I haven't had such a laugh 
for a month. For goodness' sake get up, and don't be a 
goose!" 

The young baronet sprung to his feet, furious with 
mortification and rage 


96 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


“ Miss Hunsdeu — " 

“Oh, don't!" cried Harriet, in a second paroxysm. 
“ Don't make me rupture an artery. Love me? — worship 
me? Why, you ridiculous thing! you haven't known me 
two days altogetljLer!" 

He turned away without speaking a word. A choking 
sensation rose up in his throat, for, poor fellow! he had 
been terribly in earnest. 

“ And then you're engaged to Lady Louise! Every one 
says so, and I am sure it looks like it."^ 

“ I am not engaged to Lady Louise." 

He said those words huskily, and he could say no more. 

Miss Hunsden tried to look grave, but her mouth 
twitched. The sense of the ludicrous overcame her sense 
of decorum, and again she laughed until the tears stood in 
her eyes. 

“Oh, I shall die!" in a faint whisper. “My sides 
ache. I beg your pardon, Sir Everard; but indeed 1 can 
not help it. It is so funny!" 

“ So I perceive. Good-morning, Miss Hunsden." 

“ And now you are angry. Why, Sir Everard!" catch- 
ing for the first time a glimpse of his deathly white face, 
“I didn't think you felt like this. Oh! 1 beg your par- 
don with all my heart for laughing. I believe I should 
laugh on the scaffold. It's dreadfully vulgar, but it was 
born with me, I'm afraid. Did I gallop right into your 
heart's best affections at the fox-hunt? Why, I thought I 
shocked you dreadfully. I know! tried to. Won't you 
shake hands. Sir Everard, and part friends?" 

“ Miss Hunsden will always find me her friend if she 
ever needs one. Farewell!" 

Again he was turning awa}’. He would not touch the 
proffered palm. He was so deathly white, and his voice 
shook so, that the hot tears rushed into the impetuous 
Harrie’s eyes. 

“ I am so sorry," she said, with the simple humility of 
a little child. “ Please forgive me. Sir Everard. I know 
it was horrid of me to laugh; but you don't really care for 
me, you know. You only think you do; and I— oh! I'm 
only a flighty little girl of seventeen, and I don't love any- 
body in the world but papa, and I never mean to be mar- 
ried—at least, not for ages and ages to come. Do forgive 
me. " 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 97 

lie bowed low, but he would neither answer nor take 
her hand, lie was far too deeply hurt. 

Before she could speak again he was gone. A moment, 
and he had vaulted into the saddle and was out of sight. 

“ And he’s as mad as a hatter!” said Harrie, ruefully. 
“ Oh, dear, dear! what torments men are, and what a bore 
falling in love is! And 1 liked him, too, better than any 
of them, and thought we were going to be brothers in 
arms — Damon and — what’s his name? — and all that sort 
of thing! It’s of no use my ever hoping for a friend. 1 
shall never have one in this lower world, for just so sure 
as I get to like a person, that person must go and fall in 
love with me, and then we quarrel and part. It’s hard.” 

And Miss Hunsden sighed deeply, and went into the 
house. 

And Sir Everard rode home as if the fiend was after him 
— like a man gone mad — flung the reins of the foaming 
horse to the astounded groom, rushed up to his room and 
locked himself in, and declined his luncheon and his din- 
ner, and would have blown his brains out if there had been 
a loaded pistol within the four walls. 

And the result of it all was that when he came down to 
breakfast next morning, with a white, wild face, and livid 
rings round his eyes, he electrified the family by his abrupt 
announcement : 

“ I start for Constantinople to-morrow. From thence I 
shall make a tour of the East. I will not return to Eng- 
land for the next three years.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LYING IN BRITHLOW WOOD. 

A THUNDERBOLT falling at your feet from a cloudless 
summer sky must be rather astounding in its unexpected- 
ness, but no thunderbolt ever created half the consterna- 
tion Sir Eyerard’s fierce announcement did. They looked 
at him and at each other with blank faces-^his was set, 
rigid, ghastly. 

“Going away!” his mother murmured — ‘‘going to 
Constantinople. My dear Everard, you don’t mean it?” 

“ Don’t I?” he said, fiercely. “ Don’t 1 look as if I 
meant it?” 


4 


98 


THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 


“ But what has happened? Oh, Everard, what does all 
this mean?’^ 

“ It means, mother, that I am a mad, desperate and 
reckless man; that I don’t care whether I ever return to 
England again or not. 

Lady Kingsland^s own angry temper and imperious 
spirit began to rise. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes 
flashed. 

“ It means you are a headstrong, selfish, cruel boy! 
You don’t care an iota what pain youdnflict on others, if 
you are thwarted ever so slightly yourself. 1 have in- 
dulged you from your childhood. You have never known 
one unsatisfied wish it was in my power to gratify, and 
this is my reward!” 

Ho sat in sullen silence. He felt the reproach keenly in 
its simple truth; but his heart was too sore, the pain too 
bitter, to let him yield. 

“You promise me obedience in the dearest wish of my 
heart,” her ladyship went on, passionately, heedless, now 
that her fiery spirit was fairly up, of the presence of Mil- 
dred and Sybilla, ‘ ‘ and you break that promise at the first 
sight of a wild young hoiden in a hunting-field. It is on 
her account you frighten me to death in this heartless 
manner, because I refuse my consent to your consummat- 
ing your own disgrace. ” 

“ My disgrace?” His blue eyes fairly blazed. “Take 
care, mother!” 

“Do you dare speak in that tone to me?” She rose 
up from the table, livid with passion. “ 1 repeat it. Sir 
Everard Kingsland — your disgrace! M 3 ^stery shrouds this 
girl’s birth and her father’s marriage — if he ever was mar- 
ried-— and where there is mystery there is guilt.” 

“A sweeping assertion!” the baronet said, with con- 
centrated scorn; “ but in the present instance, my good 
mother, a little out of place. The mystery is of your own 
making. The late Mrs. Harold Hunsden was a native of 
New- York. There she was married — there she died at her 
daughter’s birth. Captain Hunsden cherishes her memoi’y 
all too deeply to make it the town talk, hence all the 
county is up agape inventing slander. 1 hope you are 
satisfied?” 

Lady Kingsland stood still, gazing at him in her sur- 
prise. " 


THE BARONET^ BRIDE. 


99 


“ Who told you all this?'’' slie asked. 

“ She who had the best right to know — the slandered 
woman's daughter. " 

“Indeed — indeed!" slowly and searchingly. “You 
have been talking to her, then? And your whole heart is 
really set on this matter, Everard?" 

She came a step nearer; her voice softened; she laid one 
slender hand, with infinite tenderness, on his shoulder — 
this impetuous only son was so unspeakably dear to her. 

“ What does it matter?" he retorted, impatiently toss- 
ing baqk his bright, fair hair, his voice full of sharp in- 
ward pain. “ For Heaven's sake, let me alone, mother!" 

“ My boy " — a little tremor in my lady's steady voice — 
“ if you really love this wild girl so much, if your whole 
heart is set on her, I must withdraw my objections. I 
can refuse my darling nothing. Woo Harriet Hunsden, 
wed her, and bring her here. I will try and receive her 
kindly for your sake." 

Sir Everard Kingsland shook off the fair, white, caress- 
ing hand, and rose to his feet, with a harsh, strident laugh. 
“ You are very good, my mother, but it is a little too late. 
Miss Hunsden did me the honor to refuse me yesterday. " 

“ Refuse you?" 

She recoiled as if he had struck her. 

“ Even so — incredible as it sounds! You see this little 
barbarian is not so keenly alive to the magnificent honor 
of an alliance with the house of Kingsland as some others 
are, and she said No plumply when I asked her to be my 
wife. Not only that, but laughed in my face for my pre- 
sumption." 

Again that harsh, jarring laugh rang out, and with the 
last word he strode from the room, closing the door with 
an emphatic bang. 

Lady Kingsland sunk down in the nearest chair, per- 
fectly overcome, and looked at her daughter. Sybilla Sil- 
ver, with a strong inclination to laugh in their faces, raised 
her tea- cup, and hid a malicious smile there. 

“ Refused him!" my lady murmured, helplessly. 
“ Mildred, did you hear what he said?" 

“ Yes, mamma," Mildred replied, in distress. “ She is 
a very proud girl — Harriet Hunsden. " 

“ Proud! Good heavens!" My lady sprung to her feet, 
goaded by the word. “ The wretched little pauper! the 


100 


THE BAHONET’S BRIDE. 

uneducated, uncivilized, horrible little wretch! What 
business has she with pride — with nothing under the sun 
to be proud of.^ Refuse my son! Oh, she must be mad, 
or a fool, or both! I will never forgive her as long as I 
live; nor him, either, for asking her!’^ 

With which my lady flung out of the apartment in a 
towering rage, and went up to her room and fell into 
hysterics and the arms of her maid on the spot. 

It was a day of distress at Kingsland Court— gloom and 
despair reigned. Lady Kingsland, shut up in her own 
apartments, would not be comforted — and Sir Everard, 
busied with his preparations, was doggedly determined to 
carry out his designs. Sybilla was the only one who en- 
joyed the situation, and she did enjoy the prevailing dis- 
may with a keen enjoyment that seemed quite incredible. 

As she stood in the front portico, early in the afternoon, 
humming jauntily an opera tune, a servant wearing the 
Hunsden livery rode up to her and delivered a twisted 
note. 

“ For Sir Everard, said the man, and rode away. 

Miss Silver took it, looked at it with one of her curious 
little smiles, thought a nioment, turned, and carried it 
straight to my lady. My lady examined it with angry eyes. 

“ From Miss Hunsden, she said, contemptuously. 
“ She repents her hasty decision, no doubt, and sepds to 
tell him so. Bold, designing creature! Find Sir Ever- 
ard ’s valet. Miss Silver, and give it to him.^^ 

Miss Silver did as requested. Sir Everard was in his 
dressing-room arraying for dinner, and his pale face 
flushed deep red as he received the note. Did she repent 
— did she recall her refusal? He tore it open and literally 
devoured the contents. 

“ Dear Sir Everard, — Please, please, please forgive 
me! Oh, I am so sorry I laughed and made you angry! 
But indeed I thought you only meant it as a joke. Two 
days is such a little while to be acquainted before propos- 
ing, you know. WonT you come to see us again? Papa 
has asked for you several times. Pray pardon me. You 
would if you knew how penitent I am. 

‘ ‘ Yours remorsefully, 

“ Harrte Hunsdeh. 

“ Hunsden Hall, Kov. 15th, 18—.^’ 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 101 

' He read the piteous, childish little letter over and over 
again until his face glowed. It takes but a moment to 
lift these impetuous, impulsive people from the depths of 
despair to the apex of bliss. Hope planted her shining 
foot once more on the baronet's heart. 

“ I will go at once," he said, hiding away the little 
pink’ tinted, violet-perfumed note very near his heart. 
“Common courtesy requires me to say farewell before I 
start for Constantinople. And the captain likes me, and 
his influence is all-powerful with her,^' added the young 
man, somewhat inconsequently, “ and who knows-—" 

He did not finish the mental sentence. He rapidly com- 
pleted his t6ilet, hid his dinner-costume under a loose rid- 
ing-coat, ordered his horse, and set off hot foot. 

Of course, all the short cuts came in requisition. The 
path through Brithlow Wood was the path he took, going 
at full gallop. Lost in a deliciously hopeful reverie, he 
was half-way through, when a hollow groan from the way- 
side smote his ear. 

“ For God's sake," a faint voice called, “ help a dying 
man!" 

The baronet stared around aghast. Kight before him, 
under the trees, lay the prostrate figure of a fallen man. 
To leap off his horse, to bend over him, was but the work 
of an instant. J udge of his dismay when he beheld the 
livid, discolored face of Captain Hunsden. 

“ Great Heaven! Captain Hunsden! What horrible ac- 
cident is this?" 

The dulled eyes of the Indian officer sought his face. 

“ Sir Everard," he murmured, in a thick, choking tone, 
•“ go — tell Harrie — poor Harrie — " 

His voice died away. 

“ Were you thrown from your horse? Were you way- 
laid?" asked the young man, thinking of his own recent 
adventure. 

“ One of those apoplectic attacks. I was thrown. Tell 
Harrie — " 

Again the thick, guttural accents failed. 

Sir Everard raised his head, and knelt for a moment be- 
wildered. How should he leave him here alone while he 
.went in search of a conveyance? 

J list then, as if sent directly by Providence, the Eever- 


102 THE baronet’s bride. 

end Cyrus Green, in his light chaise, drove into the wood- 
land path. 

“ Heaven be praised!” cried the baronet. “ 1 was won- 
dering what I should do. A dreadful accident has hap- 
pened, Mr. Green. Captain Hunsden has had a fall, and 
is very ill.” 

The rector got out, in consternation, and bent above the 
prostrate maiv The captain’s face had turned a dull, 
livid hue, his eyes had closed, his breathing came hoarse 
and thick. 

“Very ill, indeed,” said the clergyman, gravely — “so 
ill that I fear he will never be better. Let us place him 
in the chaise. Sir Everard. 1 will drive slowly, xind do you 
ride on to Hunsden Hall to prepare his daughter for the 
shock. ” 

The Indian officer was a stalwart, powerful man. It 
was the utmost their united strength could do to lift him 
into the chaise. He lay awfully corpse-like among the 
cushions, rigid and stark. 

“ Ride — ride for your life!” the rector said, “ and dis- 
patch a servant for the family doctor. I fear the result 
of this fall will be fatal.” 

He needed no second bidding; he was off like the wind. 
Sir Galahad sprung' over the ground, and reached Huns- 
den in an incredibly short time. A flying figure, in wild 
alarm, came down the avenue to meet him. 

“ Oh, Sir Everard!” Harrie‘panted, in affright, “ where 
is papa? Me left to go to Kingsland Court, and Starlight 
has come galloping back riderless. Something awful has 
happened, I know!” 

He looked down upon her with eyes full of passionate 
love. How beautiful she looked, with her pale, upraised 
face, her wild, affrighted eyes, her” streaming hair, her 
clasped hands. 

His man’s heart burned within him. He wanted to 
catch her in his arms, to hold her there forever — to shield 
her from all the world and all worldly sorrow. 

Something of what he felt must have shone in his ardent 
eyes. Hers dropped, and a bright, virginal blush dyed for 
the first time cheek and brow. He vaulted off his horse 
and stood uncovered before her. 

“Dear Miss Hunsden,” he said, gently, “there has 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 103 

been an accident. I am sorry io be the bearer of ill news, 
but don^t be alarmed — all may yet be well.^’ 

“ Papa!^^ she barely gasped. 

“ He has met with an accident — a second apoplectic fit. 
I found him lying in Brithlow Wood. He had fallen from 
his horse. Mr. Green is fetching him here in his chaise. 
They will arrive presently. You had better have his room 
prepared, and I — will I ride for your physician myself?^' 

She leaned against a tree, sick and faint. He made a 
step toward her, but she rallied and motioned him off. 

“ JSTo,^" she said, “ let me be! Don’t go. Sir Everard — 
remain here. I will send a servant for the doctor. Oh, I 
dreaded this! I warned him when he left this afternoon, 
but he wanted to see you so much.” 

She left him and hurried into the house, dispatched a 
man on horseback for the doctor, and prepared her fa- 
ther’s room. 

In fifteen minutes the doctor’s pony -chaise drove up. 
He and the baronet and the butler assisted the stricken 
and insensible man up to his room, and laid him upon the 
bed from which he was never more to rise. 


CHAPTER XTV. 

THE captain’s LAST NIGHT. 

The twilight was falling, ghostly and gray. A long, 
lamentable blast worried the stripped trees and drove the 
dead leaves before it in whirling drifts. 

A pale young crescent moon rose watery in the bleak, 
starless sky; down on the shore the flood-tide beat its 
hoarse refrain, and in his chamber Harold Godfrey Huns- 
den lay dying. 

They knew it — the silent watchers in that somber room 
— his daughter, and all. She knelt by the bedside, her 
face hidden — not weeping; still, tearless, stunned. Sir 
Everard, the doctor, the rector, silent and sad, stood 
around. 

The dying man had been aroused to full consciousness 
at last. One hand feebly rested on his daughter’s stricken 
young head, the other lay motionless on the counterpane. 
His dulled eyes went aimlessly wandering. 

“ Doctor!” 

The old physician bent. over him. 


104 THE BAKONET’S BRIDE. 

“ How long?^^ he paused' — “ how long can I lasfc?’^ 

“ My dear friend — 

“How long?'' the Indian oflicer impatiently said. 
“ Quick! the truth! how long?’" 

“ Until to-moiTow.’" 

“ Ah!"" 

The hand lying on Harriets dark curls lay more heavily 
perhaps— that was all. 

“ Is there anything you wish? anything you want done? 
any person you would like to see?"" 

“Yes/" the dying man answered, life suddenly leaping 
up in his glazing eyes — “ yes, Sir Bverard Kingsland."" 

“ Sir Everard Kingsland is here."" 

He motioned the baronet to approach, retreating him- 
self. 

Sir Everard bent over him. 

“ Send them away,"" said the sick man. “ Both. 1 
want to speak to you alone."" 

“ Even in that supreme moment — in the awful presence 
of death — the lover"s heart bounded at the words the dying 
man might say. 

He delivered the message, and the rector and doctor 
went into the passage to wait. 

“ Come closer,"" the captain said, and the young baronet 
knelt by the bedside, opposite Harrie, “ and tell the truth 
to a dying mao. Harrie, my darling, are you listening?"" 

“ Yes, papa."" 

She lifted her pale young face, rigid in tearless despair. 

“ My own dear girl, I am going to leave a little sooner 
than I thought. 1 knew my death would be soon and sud- 
den, but I did-not expect it so soon, so awfully sudden as 
this!"" His lips twitched spasmodically, and there was a 
brief pause. “I had hoped not to leave you alone and 
friendless in the world, penniless and unprotected. I 
hoi)ed to live to see you the wife of some good man, but it 
is not to be. God wills for the best, my darling, and to 
Him I leave you."" 

A dry, choking sob was the girl’s answer. Her eyes 
were burning and bright. The captain turned to the im- 
patient/expectant young baronet. 

“Sir Everard Kingsland,"" he said, with a painful effort, 
“you are the son of my old and much- valued friend; 
therefore 1 speak. My near ap23roach to eternity lifts me 


'the baroket’s bride. 105 

above the minor, considerations of timel Yesterday morn- 
ing, f r^n yonder window, 1 saw you on the terrace with 
my daughter. 

The baronet grasped his hand, his face flushed, his eyes 
aglow. Oh, surely, the hour of his reward had come! 

“ You made her an offer of your hand and heart?’^ 

“ Which she refused,^’ the young man said, with a 
glance of unutterable reproach. “ Yes, sir; and I love her 
with my whole heart 

Impetuous two-and-twenty! He forgot the death-bed; 
he forgot everything earthly, but that his bliss or despair 
for life was shifting in the balance. He looked across with 
glowing eyes. 

“ I thought so,^^ very faintly. “ Why did you refuse, 
Harrie?^^ 

“ Oh, papa!^^ She covered her face with her hands, in 
maidenly shame, from her lover^s radiant eyes. “ Why 
are we talking of this now?^^ 

“ Because ! am going to leave you, my daughter. Be- 
cause I would not leave you alone. Why did you refuse 
Sir Everard?’’ 

“ Papa, 1 — I only knew him such a little while. 

“ And that is all? You don’t dislike him, do you, my 
pet?” 

She flushed all over. They could see “ beauty’s bright, 
transient glow ” through the hiding hands. 

“ No-o, papa.” 

“ And you don’t like any one else better?” 

“ Papa, you know 1 don’t.” 

“ My own spotless darling! And you will let Sir Ever- 
ard love you, and be your true and tender husband?” 

“ Oh, papa, don’t!” 

She flung herself down with a vehement cry. But Sir 
Everard turned his radiant, hopeful, impassioned face 
upon the Indian officer. 

“ For God’s sake, plead my cause, sir! She will listen 
to you. I love her with all my heart and soul. I will be 
miserable for life without her.” 

“ You hear, Harrie? This vehement young wooer- 
make him happy. Make me happy by saying ‘ Yes.’ ” 

She looked up with the wild glance of a stag at bay. 
For one moment her frantic idea was flight. 

“My love— my life!” Sir Everard caught both her 


106 THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 

hands across the bed, and his voice was hoarse with its 
concentrated emotion. “ You don^t know how I love you. 
If you refuse 1 shall go mad. ' 1 will be the truest, the 
tenderest husband ever man was to woman. 

The great gray eyes flashed from one to the other. She 
looked like a creature out of herself. 

“I am dying,^ Harrie,^' her father said, sadly, “>and 
you will be all alone in this big, bad world. But if your 
heart says ‘ my own best beloved, to my old friend^s 
son, then never hesitate to refuse. In all my life 1 never 
thwarted you. On my death-bed I will not begin. 

“ What shall 1 do?^' she cried. “ What shall 1 do?^^ 

“ ConsentV^ her lover whispered, deathly pale with his 
supreme suspense. 

“ Consent Her father’s anxious eyes spoke the word 
eloquently. 

She looked from one to the other — the dying father, the 
handsome, hopeful, impetuous' young lover. Some faint 
thrill in her heart answered his. Girls like daring lovers. 

She drew her hands out of his clasp, hesitated a mo- 
ment, while that lovely, sensitive blush came and went, 
then gave them suddenly back of her own accord. 

He grasped them tight, with an inarticulate cry of 
ecstasy. For worlds he could not have spoken. The 
dying face looked unutterably relieved. 

“ That means ‘ Yes,’ Harrie?” 

“Yes, papa. ” 

“Thank 'God!” 

He joined their hands, looking earnestly at the young 
man. 

“ She is yours, Kingsland. May God deal with you as 
you deal with my orphan child!” 

“Amen!” 

Solemnly Sir Everard Kingsland pronounced his own 
condemnation with the word. Awfully came back the 
memory of that adjuration in the terrible days to come. 

“ She is very young,” said Captain Hunsden, after a 
pause— “ too young to marry. You must wait a year.” 

“A year!” 

Sir Everard repeated the word in consternation, as if it 
had been a century. 

“Yes,” said the captain, firmly. “A year is not too 
long, and she will only be eighteen then. Let her return 


THE r.ARONET^S BRIDE. 


107 


to her old pension in Paris. She sadly needs the help of 
a finishing school, my poor little girl! My will is made. 
The little 1 leave will suffice for her wants. Mr. Green is 
her guardian— he understands my wishes. Oh, my lad!’^ 
with an eloquent, fatherly cry, “ you will be very good to 
my friendless little Harrie! She will have but you in the 
wide world. 

“ I swear it. Captain Hunsden! It will be my bliss and 
my honor to make her my happy wife.^^ 

“ I believe you. And now go — go both, and leave me 
alone, for I am very tired. 

Sir Everard arose, but Harrie grasped her father^s cold 
hand in terror. 

“No, no, papa! 1 will not leave you. Let me stay. I 
will be very quiet — I shall not disturb you.^^ 

“ As you like, my dear.' She will call you, Kingsland, 
by and by. 

The young man left the room. Then Harriet lifted a 
pale, reproachful face to her father. 

“ Papa, how could you?^^ 

“ My dear, you are not sorry? You will love this young 
man very dearly, and he loves you.^^ 

“ But his mother. Lady Kingsland, detests me. And, 
with a sudden uprearing of the proud little head, a sudden 
flash of the imperious gray eyes, “I want to enter no 
man^s house unwelcome. 

“ My dear, donT be hasty. How do you know Lady 
Kingsland detests you? That is impossible, I think. She 
will be a kind mother to my little motherless girl. Ah, 
pitiful Heaven! that agony is to come yet!^^ 

A spasm of pain convulsed his features, his brows knit, 
his eyes gleamed. 

Harrie,^^ he said, hoarsely, grasping her hands, “ I 
have a secret to tell you — a horrible secret of guilt and dis- 
grace! It has blighted my life, blasted every hope, turned 
the whole world into a biack and festering mass of cor- 
ruption! And, oh! worst of all, you must bear it— your 
life must be darkened, too. But not until the grave has 
closed over me. My child, look here. 

He drew out, with a painful effort, something from be- 
neath his pillow and handed it to her. It was a letter, ad- 
dressed to herself, and tightly sealed. 

“ My secret is there,^^ he whispered — “ the secret it 


108 


THE BAKONET'S BRIDE. 


would blister my lips to tell you. When you are safe with 
Madame Beaufort, in Paris, open and read this — not be- 
fore. You promise, Harrie?’' 

“ Anything, papa — every thing She hid it away in 

her bosom. “ And now try to sleep; you are talking a 
great deal too much. 

“ Sing for me, .then.’^ 

She obeyed the strange request — he had always loved to 
hear her sing. She commenced a plaintive little song, and 
before it was finished he was asleep. 

All night long she watched by his bedside. Now he 
slept, now he woke up fitfully, now he fell into a lethargic 
repose. The doctor and Sir Everard kept watch in an ad- 
joining chamber, within sight of that drooping, girlish 
form. 

Once, in the small hours, the sick man looked at her 
clearly, and spoke aloud: 

“ Wake me at day-dawn, Harrie.^^ 

“Yes, papa.^^ 

And then he slept again. The slow hours dragged away 
— morning was near. She walked to the window, drew the 
curtain and looked out. Dimly the pearly light was creep- 
ing over the sky, lighting the purple, sleeping sea, bright- 
ening and brightening with every passing, second. 

She would not disobey him. She left the window and 
bent over the bed. How still he lay! 

“ Papa, she said, kissing him softly, “day is dawn- 
ing."" 

But the captain never moved nor spoke. And then 
Harriet Hunsden knew the everlasting day had dawned 
for him. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE DEAD MAN"S SECRET. 

It was a very stately ceremonial that which passed 
through the gates of Hunsden Hall, to lay Harold Godfrey 
Hunsden"s ashes with those of many scores of Hunsdens 
who had gone before. 

The heir at law — an impoverished London swell — was 
there in sables and sweeping hat-band, exulting inwardly 
that the old chap had gone at last, and “ the king had got 
his own again."" 


THE BAKONET^S BRIDE. 


109 


Sir Everard Kingalaiid was ihere^ conspicuous and in- 
teresting in his new capacity of betrothed to the dead man’s 
daughter. 

And the dead man’s daughter herself, in trailing crape 
and sables, deathly pale and still, was likewise there, cold 
and rigid almost as the corpse itself. 

For she had never shed a tear since that awful moment 
when, with a wild, wailing cry of orphanage, she had flung 
herself down on the dead breast as the new day dawned. 

Pale, tearless, rigid, she sat beside that ghastly clay, 
stunned, benumbed, with all the keen after-agony of lone- 
liness and sorrow to come. She had loved her soldier- 
father with an entire and intense love, and he had gone 
from her so awfully, so suddenly that she sat dazed under 
the blow. 

The day of the funeral was one of ghostly gloom. The 
November wind swept icily over the sea with a dreary wail 
of winter; the cold rain beat its melancholy drip, drip; sky 
and earth and sea were all blurred and blotched in a clammy 
mist. 

White and wild, Harriet Hunsden hung on her lover's 
arm while the Reverend Cyrus Green solemnly read the 
touching burial service, and Harold Hunsden was laid to 
sleep the everlasting sleep. 

And then, through wailing wind 'and driving rain, she 
was going back to the desolate old home — oh, so horribly 
desolate now! She looked at his empty chamber, at his 
vacant chair, at his forsaken bed. Her face worked; with 
a long, anguished cry she flung herself on her lover’s 
breast and wept the rushing, passionate tears of seventeen 
— wept wildly and long the impetuous, blessed tears that 
keep youthful hearts from breaking. 

He held her there as reverently, as tenderly as that dead 
father might have done, letting her cry her fill, smoothing 
the glossy hair, kissing the slender hands, calling her by 
names never to be forgotten while one pulse of life should 
beat. 

“ My darling— my darling! my bride— my wife!” 

She lifted her face at last and looked at him as she never 
had looked at mortal man before. In that moment he had 
Ins infinite reward. She loved him as only these strong- 
liearted, passionate women can love— once and forever. 


110 


THE baronet's bride. 


“ Love me, Everard,'' she whispered, holding him close. 

I have no one in the world now but you." 

* :{: ^ :jc 4 : * * 

That night Harrie Hunsden left the old home forever. 
The Reverend Cyrus drove her to the rectory in the rainy 
twilight, and still her lover sat by her side, as it was his 
blissful privilege lo sit. She clung to him now, in her new 
desolation, as she might never &ve learned to cling in 
happier times. 

The rector's wife received the young girl with open 
arms, and embraced her with motherly heartiness. 

“ My poor, pale darling I" she said, kissing the cold 
cheeks. “ You must stay with us until your lost roses 
come blooming back. ” 

But Harrie shook her head. 

“ 1 will go to France at once, please," she said, mourn- 
fully. “ Madame Beaufort was always good to me, and it 
was his last wish. " 

Her voice choked. She turned away her head. 

“ It shall be as you say, my dear. But who is to take 
you?" 

“Mrs. Hilliard, and — I think~Sir Everard Kingsland." 

Mrs. Hilliard had been housekeeper at Hunsden Hall, 
and was a distant relative of the family. Under the new 
dynasty she was leaving, and had proffered her services to 
escort her young mistress to Paris. 

The Reverend Cyrus, who hated crossing the channel, 
had closed with the offer at once, and Sir Everard was to 
play protector. 

One week Miss Hunsden remained at the rectory, fortu- 
nately so busied by her preparations for departure that no 
time was left for brooding over her bereavement. 

And then, in spite of that great trouble, there was a 
sweet, new-born bliss flooding her heart. 

How good he was to her— her handsome young lover- 
how solicitous, how tender, how devoted! She could lay 
her hand shyly on his shoulder, in these calm twilights, 
and nestle down in his arms, and feel that life held some- 
thing unutterably sweet and blissful for her still. 

As for Everard, he absolutely lived at the rectory. Pie 
rode home every night, and he mostly breakfasted at the 
Court; but to all intents and purposes he dwelt at the par- 
sonage. 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


Ill 


Where the treasure is, there will the heart be also;” 
and my- lady, now that things were settled, and the jour- 
ney to Constantinople postponed indefinitely, had sunk into 
a state of sulky displeasure, and was satirical, and scorn- 
ful, and contemptuous, and stately, and altogether exquis- 
itely disagreeable. 

Lady Louise had left Devonshire, and gone back to shine 
brilliantly in London society once more. 

Miss liunsden went to France with the portly old house- 
keeper and the devoted young baronet. Mme. Beaufort 
received her ex-pupil with very French effusion. 

“Ah, my angel! so pale, so sad, so beautiful! I am 
distracted at the appearance! But we will restore you. 
The change, the associations— all will be well in time.” 

The lonely young creature clung to her lover with pas- 
sionate abandon. It was their first separation since her 
father’s death. 

“ Don’t go back just yet, Everard,” she implored. 
“ Let me get used to being alone. When you are with 
me I am content, but when you go, and l am all alone 
among these strangers — ” 

Her falling tears, her clinging arms pleaded for her 
more eloquently than words. 

But he needed no pleading — he loved her entirely, de- 
votedly. He promised anything — everything! He would 
remain in Paris the whole year of probation, if she wished, 
that he might see her at least every week. 

She let him go at last, and stole away in the dusky 
gloaming to her allotted little room. She locked the door, 
sat down by the table, laid her face on her folded arms, 
and wet them with her raining tears. 

“ I loved him so!” she thought — “ my precious father! 
Oh, it was hard to let him go!” 

She cried until she could literally cry no longer. Then 
she arose. It was quite dark now, and she lighted her 
lamp. 

“ I will read his letter,” she said to herself — “ the letter 
he left for me. I will learn this terrible secret that 
blighted his life. ” 

There was her writing-case on the table. She opened it 
with a little bright key attached to her watch-guard, and 
took out the letter. She looked sadly at the superscription 
a moment, then reverently opened it and began to read. 


112 


THE BAKONET’S BRIDE. 


“ It will be like his voice speaking to me from the 
grave/ ^ she thought. “ My own devoted father!’^ 

Half an hour passed. The letter was long and closely 
written, and the girl read it slowly from beginning to end. 

With the first page every trace of color had slowly faded 
from her face; her eyes dilated, her form grew rigid as she 
sat. But she steadily read on. She finished it at last. 

It dropped in her lap. She sat there, staring straight 
before her, with an awful, fixed, vacant stare. Then she 
arose slowly, mechanically placed it in the writing-case, 
relocked it, put her hand to her head confusedly, and 
turned with a bewildered look. 

Her face flushed dark red; the room was reeling, the 
walls rocking dizzily. She made a stej^ forward with both 
hands blindly outstretched, and fell headlong to the floor. 

Next morning Sir Everard Kingsland, descending to his 
hotel breakfast, found a sealed note beside his plate. He 
opened it, and saw it was from the directress of the Pen- 
sionnat ties Demoiselles, 

“ Monsieur, — It is with regret I inform you Mademoi- 
selle Hunsden is very ill. When you left her last evening 
she ascended to her room at once. An hour after, sitting 
in an apartment underneath, I heard a heavy fall. I ran 
up at once. ■ Mademoiselle lay on the floor in a dead swoon. 

1 rang the bell; I raised her; I sent for the doctor. It 
was a very long swoon — it was very difficult to restore her. 
Mademoiselle was very ill all night — out of herself — deliri- 
ous. The doctor fears for the brain. Ah, 7no)i Dieu! it 
is very sad — it is deplorable! We all weep for the poor 
Mademoiselle Hunsden. I am, monsieur, with profbund- 
est sentiments of sorrow and pity, 

“Marie Justine Celeste Beaufort."' 

The young baronet waited for no breakfast. He seized 
his hat, tore out of the hotel, sprung into a fiacre, and was 
whirled at once to the pension, 

Madame came to him to the parlor, her lace handker- 
chief to her eyes. Mademoiselle was very ill. Monsieur 
could not see her, of course, but he must not despair. 

Doctor Pillule had hopes. She was so young, so strong; 
but the shock of her father's death must have been preying' 
on her mind. Madame's sympathy was inexpressible. * 

Harriet lay ill for many days — delirious often, murmur- 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


ing things pitiably small, calling on her father, Oi. 
lover — sometimes on her horses and dogs. Madame an. 
her satellites tended her with unremitting care. The 
physician was skillful, and life won the battle. But it was 
a weary time before they let her descend to the parlor to 
see that impatient lover of hers, who, half mad with sus- 
pense and anxiety, haunted the house like a ghost. 

It was very near Christmas, and there was snow on the 
ground, when she came slowly down one evening to see 
him. He sat alone in the prime salon, where the porcelain 
stove stood, with its handful of fire, looking gloomily out 
at the feathery flakes whirling through the leaden twilight. 
He turned round as she glided in, so unlike herself, so like 
a spirit, that his heart stood still. 

“ My love! my love!” 

It was all he could say. He took her in his arms, so 
worn, so wasted, so sad; wan as the fluttering snow with- 
out. All his man’s heart overflowed with infinite love and 
pity as he held that frail form in his strong clasp. 

“ Dear Everard, 1 have been so ill and so lonely; 1 
wanted you so much!” 

And then- she sighed wearily, heavily, and laid her head 
on his shoulder, and was very still. He drew her to him 
as if he would never let her go again. 

“ If I could only be with you always, my darling. It is 
cruel to keep us apart for a year.” 

“ It was poor papa’s wish, Everard. Ah, poor, poor 


papa 




The unutterable compassion, the despairing sorrow of 
that cry — he could not understand it. He was inclined to 
be a little jealous of that deathless love — he wanted that 
heart to hold no image but his own. 

Presently madame came in, and there were lights, and 
bustle, and separation. Mile. Hunsden must not remain 
too long, must not excite herself. Monsieur must go away, 
and come again to-morrow. 

“ I will let her see you every day, poor homesick child, 
until she is well enough to go into the classe and commence 
her studies. Then, not so often. But monsieur will be 
gone long before that!” 

“No,” Sir Everard said, distinctly. “I remain in 
Paris for the winter. I trust to madame’s kind heart to 
permit me to see Miss Hunsden often.” 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 

^iten! Ah, mon Dieu ! how you English are iiiipetu- 
aSi so — how do you call him? — unreasonable! Monsieur 
may see mademoiselle in the salon every Saturday after- 
noon — notoftener." 

Monsieur pleaded. Madame was inexorable. It was the 
rule of the school, and as unalterable as the laws of Draco. 
Harrie herself indorsed it. ^ 

“It is better so, Everard. 1 want to study — Heaven 
knows I need it! and your frequent visits would distract 
me. Let once a week suffice." 

Sir Everard yielded to the inevitable with the best grace 
possible. He took his leave, raising Harriet's hand to his 
lips, and looking reproachfully at madame for standing 
by. But madarne was a very dragon of propriety where 
her pupils were concerned. 

Harrie lingered by the window for a moment, looking . 
wistfully after the slender figure, and slow, graceful walk. 

“ If he only knew!" she murmured. “ If he only knew 
the terrible secret thakstruck me down that night! But 
I dare not tell — I dare not, even if that voice from the dead 
had not forbidden me. 1 love him so dearly — so dearly ! 
Ah, pitiful Lord! let him never know! If I lost him, too, 

I should die!" 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE baronet's. BRIDE. 

The winter months wore by. Spring came, and still 
that most devoted of lovers. Sir Everard Kingsland, lin- 
gered in Paris, near his gray-eyed div^inity. His life was 
no dull one in the gayest capital of Europe. He had hosts 
of friends, the purse of Fortunatus, the youth and beauty 
of a demi-god. Brilliant Parisian belles, flashing in an- 
cestral diamonds, with the blue blood of the old regime in 
their delicate veins, showered their brightest smiles, their 
most entrancing glances, upon the handsome young En- 
glishman in vain. His loyal heart never swerved in its al- 
legiance to his gray -eyed queen— the love-light that lighted 
her dear face, the warm, welcoming kiss of her cherry lips, 
were worth a hundred Parisian belles with their ducal coats 
of arms. “ Faithful and true " was the motto on his seal; 
faithful and true in every word and thought — true as'Tho 
needle to the North Star— was he to the lady of his love. 


THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 


115 


The weeks went swiftly and pleasantly enough; but his 
red-letter day was the Saturday afternoon that brought him 
to his darling. And she, buried among her dry-as-dust 
school-books and classic lore — how she looked forward to 
the weekly day of grace no words of mine can tell. 

But with the first bright days of April came a change. 
He was going back to England, he told her, one Saturday 
afternoon, as' they sat, lover-like, side by side, in the pririi 
salon. She gave a low cry at the words, and looked at 
him with wild, wide eyes. 

“ Going to England! Going to leave meT^ 

‘ ‘ My dearest, it is for your sake I go, and I will be gone 
but a little while. The end of next October our long year 
of waiting ends, and before the Christmas snow fiies, my 
darling must be all my own. It is to prepare for our mar- 
riage I go. 

She hid her glowing face on his shoulder. 

“ I would make Kingsland Court a very Paradise, if I 
could, for, my bright little queen. As I can not make it 
quite Paradise, I will do what I can.^^ 

“ Any place is my Paradise so that you are there, Ever- 
ard!’^ 

And then there was an eloquent silence — the silence that 
always reigns where the joy is too intense for words or 
smiles. 

“ Landscape gardeners and upholsterers shall wave their 
magic wands and work their nineteenth century miracles,^^ 
he said, [presently, reverting to his project. “ My dear 
girPs future home shall be a very bower of delights. And, 
besides,’^ hesitating a little, “1 want to see my mother. 
She feels herself a little slighted, 1 am afraid, after this 
winter’s absence.” 

“ Ah, your mother!” with a little sigh. “ Will she 
ever like me, do you think, Everard? Her letter was so 
cold, so formal, so chilling!” 

For this high-stepping young lady who had ridden at the 
fox-hunt with reckless daring, who was so regally uplifted 
and imperious, had grown very humble in her new love. 
Not that there is anything strange in that, for the haughti- 
est Cleopatra that ever set her royal heels on the neck of 
men becomes the veriest slave the moment she is subju- 
gated by the grand passion. 

Harrie had written to my lady an humble, girlish, ap- 


116 THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

pealing little letter, and had received the coldest of polite 
replies, beautifully written, with the “ bloody hand and 
the Kingsland crest emblazoned proudly, and the motto of 
the house in good old Norman French, “ Strike once, and 
strike well.” 

Since then .there had been no correspondence. Miss 
Huiisden was too proud to sue for her favor, had she been 
her queen as well as her mother-in-law-elect, and Sir Ever- 
ard loved her too sensitively to expose her to a possible 
rebuff. 

My lady was unutterably offended by her son’s desertion 
of a whole winter. She was nothing to him now — she who 
had loved him so long and so dearly, who had been his all 
for two-and-twenty years. This bold, masculine girl with 
the horrible boy’s name was his all in all now. 

Sir Everard Kingsland met with a very cold reception 
from his lady mother upon his return to Devonshire. She 
listened in still disdain to his glowing accounts of the mar- 
vels the summer would work in the grand old place. 

“ And all this for the penniless daughter of a half-pay 
captain,” she thought, scornfully; “ and Lady Louise 
might have been his wife. ” 

Sir Everard, in the sublime egotism of youth and happy 
love, ran heedlessly on. 

“ You and Milly shall retain your old rooms, of course,” 
he said, “ and have them altered or not, just as you 
choose. Harrie’s room shall be in the south wing — she 
likes a sunny, southern prospect — and the winter and sum- 
mer drawing-rooms must be completely refurnished; and 
the conservatory has been sadly neglected of late, and the 
oak paneling in the dining-room wants touching up. 
Hadn’t you better give all the orders for your own apart- 
ments yourself? The others I will attend to.” 

“ My orders are already given,” Lady Kingsland said, 
with frigid hauteur. “ My jointure house is to be fitted 
up. Before you return from your honey-moon I will have 
quitted Kingsland Court with my daughter. Permit Mil- 
dred and ma to retain our present apartments unaltered 
until that time; then the future Lady Kingsland can have 
the old rooms disfigured with as much gilding and stucco 
and ormolu as she pleases.” 

The young man’s fair face blackened with an angry 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 117 

scowl as he listened to the taunting, spiteful speech. But 
he restrained himself. 

“ There is no necessity for your withdrawal from your 
old home. If you leave, it will be against my express 
wish. ISI either my wife nor I could ever desire such a 
step." 

“ Your wife!" Her proud lips trembled and her dark 
eyes flashed. “ Does she take state upon herself already? 
To you and your wife. Sir Everard Kingsland, I return my 
humble thanks, but even Kingsland Court is not large 
enough for two mistresses. 1 will never stand aside and 
see the pauper daughter of the half-pay captain rule where 
I ruled once." 

She swept majestically out of the room as she launched 
her last smarting shaft, leaving her son, with flashing eyes 
and face of suppressed rage, to recover his temper as best 
he might. 

“ He will never ask me again," she thought. “ I know 
his nature too well." 

And he did not. He went about his work with stern de- 
termination, never consulting her, never asking advice, or 
informing her of any project — always deferential, always 
studiously polite. But the “half-pay captain’s pauper 
daughter," from that hour, was as a wall of brass between 
the haughty mother and the proud son. 

There was one person, however, at the Court who made 
up, by the warmth of her greeting and the fervor of her 
sympathy, for any lack on his mother’s part. It wa;s Miss 
Sybilla Silver, of course, who somehow had grown to be as 
much a fixture there as the marble and bronze statues in 
the domed hall. 

She had written to find her friends in Plymouth, or she 
said so, and failed, and she had managed to make herself 
so useful to my lady that my lady was very glad to keep 
her. She coufd make caps like a Parisian milliner; she 
could dress her exquisitely ; she could read for hours in the 
sweetest and clearest of voices, without one yawn, the dull- 
est of dull High Church novels. She could answer notes 
and sing like a siren, and she could embroider prie-dieu 
chairs and table-covers, and slippers and handkerchiefs, 
and darn point lace like Fairy Fingers herself. 

She was a treasure, this ex-lad in velveteen, and my lady 
counted it a lucky day that brought her to Kingsland. 


118 


THE BAROXET’S bride. 


But Miss Sybilla belonged to rny lady’s son, and not to my 
lady. To the young lord of Kingsland her allegiance was 
due, and at his bidding she was ready, at a moment’s 
notice, to desert the female standard. 

Sir Everard, who took a kindly interest in the dashing 
damsel with the coal-black hair and eyes, who had shot the 
poacher, put the question plump one day: 

“ My mother and sister leave before the end of the year, 
Sybilla. . Will you desert me, too?” 

“ Never, Sir Everard!” The black eyes dropped, and a 
high color rose in the dusky cheeks. “ I will never desert 
you while you wish me to stay.” 

“ I should like it, I'confess. It will be horribly dreary 
for my bride to come home to a house where there is no 
one to welcome her but the servants. If my mother can 
spare you, Sybilla, I wish you would stay.” 

As she had done .once before, and ere he could prevent 
her, she lifted his hand to her lips. 

“ Sybilla belongs to you. Sir Everard! Command, and 
she will obey.” 

He laughed, but he also reddened as he drew his hand 
hastily away. 

“ Ohj pooh! don’t be melodramatic! There is no ques- 
tion of commanding and obeying about it. You are free 
to do as you please. If you choose to remain, give Lady 
Kingsland proper notice. If you prefer to go, why, I 
must look out for sjome one to take your place. Don’t be 
in a hurry — there’s plenty of time to decide.” 

He swung off and left her. He was coolly indifferent to 
-her shining beauty, her velvet black eyes, her glossy, raven 
ringlets, the tropical luxuriance of her Creole charms. 

She looked after him with a snaky gleam in those weird 
black eyes. 

“ Plenty of time to decide,” she repeated, with a slow, 
evil smile curling her thin lips. “ My good Sir Everard, I 
decided long ago! Marry your fox-hunting bride — bring 
her home. Sybilla Silver will be here to welcome her, 
never fear!” 

The baronet stayed three weeks in England — then re- 
turned impatiently to Paris. Of course the rapture of the 
meeting more than repaid the pain of parting. 

She was growing more beautiful everyday, the infatuated 
young man thought, over her books; and the sun of 


THE BAliOIs"ET's BKIDE. 


119 


France shone on nothing half so lovely as this tall, slender 
damsel, in her gray school uniform and prim, black silk 
apron. 

The summer went. Sir Everard was back and forth 
across the Channel, like an insane human pendulum, and 
the work went bravely on! Kingsland was being trans- 
formed — the landscape gardeners and the London uphol- 
sterers had carte Uanclie, and it was the story of Aladdin^s 
Palace over again. Sir Everard rubbed his golden lamp, 
and, lo! mighty genii rose up and worked wonders. 

September came — the miracles ceased. Even money 
and men could do no more. October came. 

Sir Everard ’s year of probation' was expired. The Rev- 
erend Cyrus Green overcame heroically his horror of sea- 
sickness and steamers, and went to Paris in person for his 
ward. As plain Miss Hunsden, without a shilling to bless 
herself with, the Reverend Cyrus would not by any means 
have thought this extreme step necessary; buj: for the future 
Lady Kingsland to travel alone was not for an instant to 
be thought of. So he' went, and the first week of Novem- 
ber he brought her home. 

Miss Hunsden^taller, more stately, more beautiful than 
ever — was very still and sad, this first anniversaty of her 
father’s death. Lady Kingsland, when she and Mildred 
called — for they did, of course— was rather impressed by 
the stately girl in mourning, whose fair, proud face and 
calm, gray eyes met hers so unflinchingly. It was “ Greek 
meets Greek ” here; neither would yield an inch. Cer- 
tainly Miss Hunsden was to blame, but Miss Hunsden was 
as proud a girl as ever traced back her genealogy to the 
Conquest, and had met with one decided rebuff already. 

The wedding was to take place early in December — Sir 
Everard would not wait, and Harrie seemed to have no 
will left but his. Once she had feebly uttered some re- 
monstrances, but he had imperatively cut her short. 

“ I have waited a year already; I will not wait one hour 
longer than 1 can possibly help, now.’’ 

So this high-handed young tyrant had everything his 
own way. The preparations were hurried on with amaz- 
ing haste; the day was named, the bride-maids and guests 
bidden. 

Miss Hunsden’s young lady friends were few and far be- 


120 THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

tween, and Mildred Kingsland and the rector’s sister and 
twelve-year-old daughter were to comprise the whole list. 

The wedding-day dawned—a sullen, overcast, threaten- 
ing December day. A watery sun looked out of a lower- 
ing sky, and then retreated altogether, and a leaden dull- 
ness overspread the whole firmanent. An icy wind curdled 
your blood and tweaked your nose, and feathery snow- 
flakes whirled drearily through the opa(^ue gloom. 

The charity children, who strewed the road with flowers, 
had their tender visages mottled and purple with cold, 
and the rector and his assistant shivered in their surplices. 

The church was full, and silks rustled and bright eyes 
flashed inquisitively, and people wondered who that tall, 
foreign- looking person beside my lady might be. 

It was Sybilla Silver, gorgeous in golden silk, with her 
black eyes lighted with cruel, inward exultation, and who 
glared almost fiercely upon the beautiful bride. 

My lady, magnificent in her superb disdain of all these 
childish proceedings, stood by and acknowledged in her 
heart of hearts that if beauty and grace be any excuse for 
folly, her son had those excuses. 

Lovely as a vision, with her pure, pale, passionless face, 
her clear, 'Sweet eyes, Harriet Hunsden swept up the aisle 
in her rich bridal robes, her floating lace, .and virginal 
orange-blossoms. 

The bridegroom’s eyes kindled with unutterable admira- 
tion and pride and love as he took his place by her side, 
he himself looking as noble and gallant a gentleman as 
wide England could boast. 

It was over — she was his wife! They had registered 
their names, they drove back to the rectory, the congratu- 
lations offered, the breakfast eaten, the toast drunk. She 
was upstairs dressing for her journey ; the carriage and the 
bridegroom were waiting impatiently below. 

Mrs Green hovered about her with tearful eyes andjna- 
tronly solicitude, and at the last moment Harriet flung her- 
self impetuously upon her neck and broke out into hys- 
terical crying. 

“ Forgive me!” she sobbed. “ Oh, Mrs. Green, I never 
had a mother!” 

Then she drew down her veil and ran out of the room 
before the good woman could speak. Sir Everard was 
waiting in the hall. He drew her hand under his arm and 


THE BARON-ET'S BRIDE. 1:>1 

hurried her uway.' Mrs. Green got dowu-stnirs only in 
time to see her in the carriage. She leaned forward to 
wave her gloved hand. 

“Good-bye!^’ she said — “good-bye, my good, kind 
friend!^' 

Then the bridegroom sprung lightly in beside her, the 
carriage door closed, the horses started, and the happy pair 
were off for the month of banishment civilized society im- 
peratively requires. 

* ^ * 

Sybilla Silver went back to the Court alone. My lady, 
in sullen dignity, took her daughter and went straight to 
her jointure house at the other extremity of the .village. 

She stood in the center of a lengthy suite of apartments 
— the new Lady Kingsland’s — opening one into the other 
in a long vista of splendor. She took a portrait out of her 
breast and gazed at it with brightly glittering e3^es. 

“ A whole year has passed, my mother,'^ she said, slowly, 
“ and nothing has been done. But -Sybilla will keep her 
oath. Sir Jasper Kingsland^s only son shall meet his doom. 
It is through her I will strike; that blow will be doubly 
bitter. Before this day twelvemonth dawns these two, so 
loving, so hopeful, so happy now, shall part more horribly 
and unnaturally than man and wife ever parted before 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MR. FARM ALEEVS LITTLE MYSTERY. 

Kikgslamd Court had from time immemorial been 
one of the show-places of the county, Thursday being 
always set apart as the visitors’ day. 

The portly old housekeeper used to play cicerone, but 
the portly old housekeeper, growing portlier and older 
every day, got in time quite unable to waddle up and down 
and pant out gasping explanations to the strangers. 

So Miss Sybilla Silver, with her usual good nature, came 
to the rescue, got the history of the old house, and the old 
pictures, and cabinets, and curiosities, and suits of armor 
and things by heart, and took Mrs. ComfiPs place. 

Visitors, as a general thing, stood rather in awe of the 
tall and stately young lady, in her sweeping black silk 
robes, her great black eyes, and Assyrian style generally, 


122 


THE BAROHET’S BRIBE. 


and were apt to mistake her at first for the, lady of the 
manor. 

And in spite of Miss Silver’s ceaseless smiles, and per- 
fect willingness to oblige and be useful, it was a remarka- 
ble fact that every servant in the house hated her like 
poison, excepting two tall footmen and a stable-boy, who 
were madly in love with her. 

The first Thursday after the marriage of Sir Everard 
there came sauntering up. to the Court, in the course of 
the afternoon, a tall young gentleman, smoking a cigar, 
and with his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. 

He was not only tall, but uncommonly tall, uncommon- 
Iv lanky and loose-boned, and his clothes had the general 
air of being thrown on with a pitchfork. 

He wore a redundance of jewelry, in the shape of a 
couple of yards of watch-chain, a huge seal ring on each 
little finger, and a flaring diamond breastpin of doubtful 
quality. 

His clothes were light, his hair was light, his eyes were 
light. He was utterly devoid of hirsute appendages, and 
withal he was tolerably good-looking and unmistakably 
wide awake. 

He threw away his cigar as he reached the house, and 
astonished the understrapper who admitted him by pre- 
senting his card with a flourishing bow. 

“Jest give that to the boss, my man,’^ said this per- 
sonage, coolly. “ I understand you allow strangers to ex- 
plore this old castle of your’n, and Fve come quite a piece 
for that express purpose.’’’ 

The footman gazed at him, then at the card, in sheer 
bewilderment a moment, and then went and sought out 
Miss Silver. 

“ Blessed if it isn’t that ’Merican that’s stopping at the 
Vine, and that asked so many questions about Sir Ever- 
ard and my lady, of Dawson, last night,” he said. 

Sybilla took the card curiously. It was a l)ond-fide piece 
of pasteboard, printed all over in little, stumpy capitals: 

GEOKGE WASHINGTON PARMALEE, 
Photographic Artist, 

No. 10 6Q Broadway’, 

Upstairs. 


THE baronet’s bride., 133 

Miss Silver laughed. 

The gentleman wants to see the house;, does he? Of 
course he must see it, then, Higgins. And he was ask- 
ing questions>of Dawson last night at the inn?” 

“ ’Eaps of questions, Miss Silver, as bold as brass, all 
about Sir Everard and my lady— our young lady, you 
know. Shall 1 fetch him up?” 

“ Certainly.” 

There chanced to be no other visitor at the Court, and 
Sybilla received Mr. Parmalee with infinite smiles and con- 
descension. The tall American looked rather impressed 
by the majestic young lady with the great black eyes and 
superbly handsome face, but not in the least embarrassed. 

Beg your pardon, miss,” he said, politely; “ sorry to 
put you to so much trouble, but I calculated on seeing this 
old pile before I left these parts, and as they told me down 
at the tavern this was the day — ” 

“ It is not the slightest trouble, 1 assure you,” Miss Sil- 
ver interposed, graciously. “ 1 am only too happy to have 
a stranger come and break the quiet monotony of our life 
here. And, besides, it affords me double pleasure to make 
the acquaintance of an American — a people I intensely ad- 
mire. You are the first I ever had the happiness of meet- 
ing.” 

This was doing the gracious to an unheard-of extent; 
but the gentleman addressed did not appear in the least 
overcome. 

“Want to know!” said Mr. Parmalee, in a tone be- 
tokening no earthly emotion whatever. “It’s odd, too. 
Plenty folks round our section come across; but I sup- 
pose they didn’t happen along down here. Splendid place 
this; fine growing land all round; but I see most of it is 
let run wild. If all that there timber was cut down and 
the stumps burned out and the ground turned into past- 
ure, you hain’t no idea what an improvement it would be. 
But you Britishers don’t go in for progress and that sort 
of thing. This old castle, now— it’s two hundred years 
old. I’ll be bound!” 

“More than that — twice as old. Will you come and 
look at the pictures now? Being an artist, of course you 
will like to see the pictures first. The collection is su- 
perb!” 

Mr. Parmalee followed the young lady to the long pict- 


124 


THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 


ure-gallery, liis hands still in his pockets, whistling softly 
to himself, and eying everything with his keen, shrewd, 
light-blue eyes. 

“ Must have costa sight of money, all these fixings, he 
remarked, thoughtfully. “ I know how them statues and 
busts reckons up. This here baronet must be a powerful 
rich man?’’ 

“ He is,^^ said Miss Silver, quietly. 

Mr. Parmalee fell into thought— came out of it — looked 
at Sybilla curiously. 

“ Beg your pardon, miss, but air you one of the 
family?'^ 

“ No, sir,’^ flushing a little. “ I am Lady Kingsland’s. 
companion. 

“ Oh, a domestic!^’ said Mr. Parmalee, as if to himself. 
“ Who’d a’ thought it? Lady Kingsland^’s companion? 
Which of ^em? There^s two, ainT there?” 

“ Sir Everard's mother has left Kingsland Court. 1 
am companion to Sir Everard^s wife.” 

“Ah! jest so! Got married lately, didn’t he! Might 
1 ask your name, miss?” ^ 

“lam Sybilla Silver.” 

“ Thanky,” said Mr. Parmalee, with a satisfied nod. 
“ So much easier getting along when you know a person’s 
name. Married a Miss Hunsden, didn^’t he— the bar- 
onet?’^ 

“ Yes. Miss Harriet Hunsden. ” 

“ That^s her. Lived with her pa, an old oflScer in the 
army, didn’t she? Used to be over there in America?” 

“Yes.” Sybilla caught her breath suddenly. “Did 
you know her?” 

“ Wa-al, no,” replied Mr. Parmalee, with a drawl, and 
a queer sidelong look at the lady; “ 1 can’t say I did. 
They told me down to the tavern all about it. Handsome 
young lady, wasn’t she? One of your tail-stepping, high- 
mettled sort?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And her pa’s dead, and he left her nothing? Was 
poor as a church-mouse, that old officer, wasn’t he?” 

“ Captain Hunsden had only his pay,” answered Miss 
Silver, wondering where this catechism was to end. 

“ And they’ve gone ofl on a bridal tower? Now when 
do you expect them back?” 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


125 


“In a month. Are you particularly desirous of seeing 
Sir Everard or Lady Kingsland?'^ asked Sybil la, sudden- 
ly and sharply. 

Again the tall American eyed her askance. 

“ Well, yes,^^ he said, slowly, “ I am. I’m collecting 
j^hotographic views of all your principal buildings over 
here, and I’m going to ask Sir Everard to let me take this 
place, inside and out. These rooms are the most scrump- 
tious concerns I’ve seen lately, and the Fifth Avenue 
Hotel is some pumpkins, too. Oh, these are the pictures, 
are they? What a jolly lot!” 

Mr. Parmalee became immediately absorbed by the hosts 
of dead-and-gone Kingslands looking down from the oak- 
paneled walls. Miss Silver fluently gave him names, and 
dates, and histories. 

“ Seems to me,” said Mr. Parmalee, “ those old fellows 
didn’t die in their beds— many of ’em. What with bat- 
tles,, and duels, and high treason, and sich, they all came 
to unpleasant ends. Where’s the present Kingsland’s?” 

“ Sir Everard ’s portrait is in the library.” 

“ And her ladyship — his wife?” 

“ We have no picture of Lady Kingsland as yet.” 

Mr. Parmalee’s inscrutable face told nothing — whether 
he was disappointed or not. He followed Miss Silver all 
over the house, saw everything worth seeing, and took the 
“ hull concern,” as he expressed it, as a matter of course. 
The short winter afternoon was done before the sights 
were. 

“ Should like to come again,” said Mr. Parmalee. “ A 
fellow couldn’t see all that’s worth seeing round here in 
less than a month. Might 1 step up again to-morrow. 
Miss Silver?” 

Miss Silver shook her head. 

“ I’m afraid not. Thursday is visitors’ day, and I dare 
not infringe the rules. You may come every Thursday 
while you stay, and meantime the gardeners will show you 
over the grounds whenever you desire. How long do you 
remain, Mr. Parmalee?” 

“ That’s oncertain,” replied the photographic artist, 
cautiously. “ Perhaps not long, perhaps longer. I’m 
much obliged to you, miss, for all the bother I’ve made 
you, ” 


126 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


“ Not at all,” said Sybilla, politely. “ I shall be happy 
at any time to give you any information in my power.’’ 

“ Thanky. Good -evening.” 

The tall American swung off with long strides. The 
young lady wat)ched him out of sight. 

“ There is more in this than meets the eye,” she thought. 
“ That man knows something of Harriet — Lady Kingsland. 
I’ll cultivate him for my lady’s sake.” 

After that Mr. Parmalee and Miss Silver met frequent- 
ly. In her walks to the village it got to be the regular 
thing for the American to become her escort, and almost 
every day found him meandering aimlessly about the 
grounds. 

He was rather clever at pencil-drawing, and made 
numerous sketches of the house, and took the likenesses of 
all the servants. He even set up a temporary photo- 
graphic place down in the village, and announced himself 
ready to “ take ” the whole population at “ half a dollar ” 
a head. 

“ There’s nothing like making hay while the sun shines,” 
remarked Mr. Parmalee to himself.* “ 1 may as well do a 
little stroke of business, to keep my hand in, while I wait 
for my lady. There ain’t no telling how this little specu- 
lation of mine may turn out, after all. ” 

So the weeks went by, and every Thursday found the 
American exploring the house. He was a curious study 
to Sybilla as he went along, his hands invariably in his 
pockets, his hat pushed to the back of his head, whistling 
softly and meditatively. 

Every day she became more convinced he knew some- 
thing of Harrie Hunsden’s American' antecedents, and 
ever day she grew more gracious. But if Mr. Parmalee 
had his secrets, he knew how to keep them. While fully 
appreciating the handsome young lady’s showering smiles, 
and evidently considerably in love, he yet never dropped 
the faintest clew. ^ 

“ Can he ever have been a lover of hers in New York?” 
Sybilla asked herself. “ I know she was there two years 
at school. 

But it seemed improbable, Harrie could not have been 
over thirteen or fourteen at the time. She could discover 
nothing. Mr. Parmalee kept his own counsel like wax. 

The honey-moon month passed— the January day that 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


127 


was to bring the happy pair home arrived. In the golden 
sunset of a glorious winter day the carriage rolled up the 
avenue, and Sir Everard handed Lady Kingsland out. 

The long line of servants were drawn up in the hall, 
with Mrs. Comfit and Miss Silver at their head. High 
and happy as a young prince; Sir Everard strode in among 
them, with his bride on his arm. And she— Sybilla Silver 
—set her teeth as she looked at her, so gloriously radiant 
in her wedded bliss. She seemed to have received a new 
baptism of beauty. She looked a brilliant young queen 
by royal right of that radiant loveliness. 

Mr. Parmalee, lounging among the trees, caught one 
glimpse of that exquisite face as it flashed by. 

“ By George! ain’t she a stunner? Not a bit like t’other 
one, with her black eyes and tarry hair. I’ve seen quad- 
roon girls, down South, whiter than Miss Silver. And, 
what’s more, she isn’t a bit like— like the lady in London, 
that she’d ought to look like. 

Sybilla saw very little of Sir Everard or his bride that 
evening. They dined tete-a-tete, and, after their journey, 
retired early. But the next morning, at breakfast, she 
broached the subject of Mr. Parmalee. 

“ Wants to take photographic views of the place, does 
he?” said Sir Everard, carelessly. “Is he too timid to 
speak for himself, Sybilla? His countrymen, as a rule, 
are not addicted to bashfulness.” 

“ Mr. Parmalee is not in the least bashful. He merely 
labors under the delusion that a petition proffered by me 
can not fail.” 

“ Oh, the fellow is welcome!” the baronet said, in- 
differently. “ Let him amuse himself, by all means. If 
the views are good, I will have some myself. ” 

Mr. Parmalee presented himself in the course of the 
day. It was hopelessly wet and wintery; but, with placid 
contempt for the elements, the American, shielded by a 
huge cotton umbrella, stalked up to the Court. 

Sir Everard received him._,politely in the library. 

“ Most assuredly, Mr. — oh, Parmalee. Take the views, 
of course. I am glad you admire Kingsland. You have 
been making some sketches already. Miss Silver tells me. ” 

Miss Silver herself had ushered the gentleman in, and 
now stood lingeringly by the door-way. My lady sat 


138 


THE EAKONET^S BlilDE. 


watching the ceaseless rain with indolent eyes, holding a 
novel in her lap, and looking very serene and handsome. 

“ Well, yes,” Mr. Parmalee admitted, glancing niodest- 
ly at the plethoric portfolio he carried under his arm. 
“ Would your lo^’dship mind taking a look at them? l*ve 
got some uncommon neat views of our American scenery, 
too— Mammoth Cave, Niagry Falls, White Mountains, 
and so on. Might help to pass a rainy afternoon. ” 

Sir Everard laughed good-naturedly. Ho was so su- 
premely blessed himself that he quite forgot to be proud, 
and the afternoon was hopelessly wet. 

“ Very true, Mr. Parmalee; it might. Let us see your 
American views, then. Taken by yourself, I presume?” 

“ Yes, sir!” responded the artist, with emphasis. 
“ Every one of ^em; and done justice to. Look a-here!” 

He opened his portfolio and spread his “ views ” out. 

Lady Kingsland arose with languid grace and crossed 
over. Her husband seated her beside him with a loving 
smile. Her back was partly turned to the American, 
whom she had met without the faintest shade of recogni- 
tion. 

Sybilla Silver, eager and expectant of she knew not 
what, lingered and looked likewise. 

The “ views ” were really very good, and there was an 
abundance of them — White Mountain and Hudson River 
scenery, Niagara, Nahant, Southern and Western scenes. 
Then he produced photographic portraits of all the Ameri- 
can celebrities— presidents, statesmen, authors, actors, and 
artists. 

Lady Kingsland looked at these latter with considerable 
interest. Some of the actors she had seen; many of the 
authors she had read. 

Mr. Parmalee watched her from under intent brows as 
she took them daintily up in her slender, jeweled fingers 
one by one. 

“ 1 have a few portraits here,” he said, after a pause, 
“ painted on ivory, of Amer^an ladies remarkable for 
their beauty. Here they are. ” 

He took out five, presenting them one by one to Sir 
Everard. He had not presumed to address Lady Kings- 
land directly. The first was a little Southern quadroon; 
the second a bright-looking young squaw. 

The baronet laughed. 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


129 


“ These are* your American ladies, are they? Pretty 
enough to be ladies, certainly. Look, Harrie! IsnT that 
Indian face exquisite?’’ 

He passed them to his wife. The third was an actress, 
the fourth a dcmseuse. All were beautiful. With the 
last in his hand, Mr. Parmalee paused, and the first change 
Sybilla had ever seen cross his face crossed it then. 

“ This one 1 prize most of all,” he said, speaking slowly 
and distinctly, and looking furtively at my lady. “ This 
lady’s story was the saddest story I ever heard.” 

Sybilla looked eagerly across the baronet’s shoulder for 
a second. It was a lovely face, pure and child-like, with 
great, innocent blue eyes and wavy brown hair — the face 
of a girl of sixteen. 

“It is very pretty,” the baronet said, carelessly, and 
passed it to his wife. 

Lady Kingsland took it quite carelessly. The. next in- 
stant she had turned sharply around and looked Mr. 
Parmalee full in the face. 

The American had evidently expected it, for he had 
glanced away abruptly, and begun hustling his pictures 
back into his portfolio. Sybilla could see he was flushed 
dark red. She turned to my lady. She was deathly pale. 

“ Did you paint those portraits, too?” she asked, speak- 
ing for the first time. 

“ No, marm — my lady, I mean. I collected these as 
curiosities. One of ’em— the one you’re looking at — was 
given me by the original herself.” 

The picture dropped from my lady’s hand as if it had 
been red-hot. Mr. Parmalee bounded forward and picked 
it up with imperturbable sang f void. 

“ 1 value this most of all my collection. I knew the 
lady well. I wouldn’t lose it for any amount of money. 

My lady arose abruptly and walked to the window, and 
the hue of her face was the hue of death. Sybilla Silver’s 
glittering eyes went from face to face. 

“ I reckon I’ll be going now,” Mr. Parmalee remarked. 
“ The rain seems to hold up a little. I’ll be along to- 
morrow, Sir Everard, to take those views. Much obliged 
to you for your kindness. Good-day.” 

He glanced furtively at the stately woman by the win- 
dow, standing still as if turning to stone. But she neither 
looked nor moved nor spoke. 


130 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

IN THE PICTURE-GALLERY. 

Mr. Parmalee, true to his promise, presented himself 
at the earliest admissible hour next day with all the ap- 
paratus of his art. 

So early was it/ indeed, that Sybilla was just pouring 
out the baronet’s first cup of tea, while he leisurely opened 
the letters the morning mail had brought. 

Lady Kingsland complained of a bad headache, her hus- 
band said, and would not leave her room until dinner. 

Sir Everard made this announcement, quietly opening 
his letters. Sybilla looked at him with furtive, gleaining 
eyes. The time had come for her to begin to lay her 
train. 

My lady had ascended to her room immediately upon the 
departure of the American, the preceding day, and had 
been invisible ever since. That convenient feminine ex- 
cuse, headache, had accounted for it; but Sybilla Silver 
knew better. She had expected her to breakfast this 
morning, and she began to think Mr. Parmalee’s little 
mystery was more of a mystery than even she had 
dreamed. The announcement of the man’s arrival gave 
her her cue. 

“Our American friend is a devotee of art, it seems,” 
she said, with a light laugh. “ He lets no grass grow un- 
der his feet. 1 had no easy task to restrain his artistic 
ardor within due limits during your absence. I never 
knew such an inquisitive person, either; he did nothing 
but ask questions.” 

“ A national trait,” Sir Everard responded,* with a 
shrug. “ Americans * are all inquisitive, which accounts 
for their go-aheadativeness, 1 dare say. ” 

“Mr. Parmalee’s questions, however, took a very nar- 
row range; they only comprised one subject — you and my 
lady.” 

The young baronet looked up in haughty amaze. 

“ His curiosity on this subject was insatiable; your most 
minute biography would not have satisfied him. About 
Lady Kingsland particularly— in point of fact, I thought 


THE BAROKET’S BRIDE. 


131 


he must have known her in New York, his questions were 
so pointed, and I asked him so directly.’’^ 

The stare of haughty surprise gave place to one of as- 
tonished anger, as the baronet bent his brows and looked 
sternly across the table. 

“ And what did he say?’^ 

“Oh, he said no,^^ replied Sybilla, lightly, “but in 
such a manner as led me to infer yes. However, it was 
evident, yesterday, that my lady had never set eyes on 
him before; but I did fancy, for an instant, she somehow 
recognized that picture. ** 

“ What picture asked the baronet, sharply, his brows 
knit in an angry frown. 

“ That last portrait he showed her,’^ Miss Silver an- 
swered, still in the same light tone. “ Yet that may have 
been only fancy, too.^^ 

The angry frown deepened and darkened. The blue 
blood of the Kingslands was prone to heat easily. 

“Then, Miss Silver, have the goodness to indulge 
in no more such fancies. 1 don’t care to hear your sus- 
picions and surmises, and I don’t choose to have my wife 
so minutely watched. As for this too inquisitive Yankee, 
he had better cease his questions, if he wishes to quit Eng- 
land with sound bones!’’ 

He arose angrily from the table, swept his letters to- 
gether, and left the room. But his face wore a deep-red 
flush, and his bent brows never relaxed. The first poison- 
ous suspicion had entered his mind, and the calm of per- 
fect trust would never reign there again. 

Sybilla gazed after him with her dark, evil smile. 

“Caesar’s wife must be above reproach, of course. ^ 
Fume and fret as you please, my dear Sir Everard, but 
this is only sowing the first seed. I shall watch your wife, 
and 1 will tell you my suspicions and my fancies, and you 
will listen in spite of your uplifted sublimity now. J(>al- 
ousy is ingrained in your nature, though you do not know 
it, and a very little breath will fan the tiny coal into an 
inextinguishable flame. ” 

She arose, rang the bell for the servant to clear the 
table, shook out her black silk robe, and went, with a 
smile on. her handsome face, to do the fascinating to Mr. 
Parmalee. 

She found that cautious gentleman busily arranging his 


132 


THE BAKONET’s bribe. 


implemouts in the picture-gallery, preparatory to taking 
sundry views of the noble room. He nodded gravely to 
the young lady, and went steadfastly on with his work. 

“ You certainly lose no time, Mr. Parmalee,^^ Miss Sil- 
ver said. “ 1 was remarking to Sir Everard at breakfast 
that you were a perfect devotee of art.^^ 

Mr. Parmalee nodded again, in acknowledgment of the 
compliment. 

“ How does the baronet find himself this morning?'^ he 
asked. 

“ As usual — well.^^ 

“ And her ladyship?” very carelessly. 

“ Her ladyship is not well. Pm afraid your pretty 
pictures disagreed with her, Mr. Parmalee.” 

“ Hey?” said the artist, with a sharp, suspicious stare. 

Miss Silver laughed. 

“ She was perfectly well until you showed them to her. 
She has been ill ever since. One must draw one^s own 
inference. 

Mr. Parmalee busied himself some five minutes in pro- 
found silence. Then — 

“ Where is she to-day? Ain’t she about?” 

“ No. I told you she was ill. She complained of head- 
ache after you left yesterday, and went up to her own 
room. 1 have not seen her since.” 

Mr. Parmalee began to whistle a negro melody, and still 
went industriously on with his work. 

“ I don’t think nothing of that,” he remarked, after a 
prolonged pause. “ Fine ladies all have headaches. 
Knowed heaps of ’em to home — all had it. You have 
yourself sometimes, I guess.” 

“ No,” said Sybilla; “ I’m not a fine lady. I have no 
time to sham headaches, and 1 have no secrets to let 
loose. I am only a fine lady’s companion, and all the 
world is free to know my history.” 

And then Miss Silver looked at Mr. Parmalee, and Mr. 
Parmalee looked at Miss Silver, with the air of two ac- 
complished duelists waiting for the word. 

“ He’s as sharp as a razor,” thought the lady, “ and as 
shy as a partridge. Half measures won’t do with him. 1 
must fight him on his own ground.” 

“ By jingo! she’s as keen as a catamount!” thought 
the gentleman, in a burst of admiration. “ She’ll be a 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


133 


credit to the man that marries her. What a pity she 
don't belong down to Maine. She's a sight too cute for a 
born Britisher." 

There was a long pause. Miss Silver and Mr. Parmalee 
looked each other full in the eye without winking. All at 
once the gentleman burst out laughing. 

“ Get out!" said Mr. Parmalee. “ Go 'long — do! 
You're too smart for this world-— you are, by gosh! Miss 
Sybilla Silver." 

“ Almost smart enough for a Yankee, Mr. Parmalee, 
and wonderfully good at guessing." 

“ Yes? And what have you guessed this time?" 

“ That you have Lady Kingsland's secret; that that 
portrait — the last of the live— is the clew. That you hold 
the baronet's bride in the hollow of your hand!" 

She spoke the last words close to his ear, in a fierce, 
sibilant whisper. The American actually recoiled. 

“Go 'long!" repeated Mr. Parmalee. “ Don't you go 
whistling in a fellow's ear like that, MissS. ; it tickles. 
Got any more to say?" 

“ Only this: that you had better make a friend of me, 
Mr. Parmalee." 

There was a glittering^ menace in her black eyes — a 
hard, threatening under-tone in her voice. But the 
American lost not an atom of his imperturbable mng 
froid. 

“And if I don't. Miss S. ? If I prefer to do as we do 
in euchre, ‘ go it alone ' — what then?" 

“ Then!" cried Sybilla, with a blaze of her black eyes, , 
“ I'll take the game out of your hands. I'll foil you with 
your own weapons. I never failed yet. I'll not fail now. 
I'm a match for a dozen such as you!" 

“ I believe, in my soul, you are!" exclaimed the artist, 
in a burst of admiring enthusiasm. “ You're the real 
grit, and no mistake. I do admire spunky girls— I do, 
by jingo! I always thought if I married and fetched a 
Mrs. George AY ashington Parmalee down to Maine, she'd 
have to be something more than common. And you're 
not common. Miss S.— not by a long chalk! 1 never met 
your match in my life. ' ' 

“No?" said Sybilla, smiling, and rather surprised by 
this outburst; “ not even ‘ down to Maine?' " 

“ No, by George! and we raise the smartest kind of girls 


134 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


there. Now, Miss Silver, supposing we go partners in 
this here concern, would you he willing to go partners 
with a fellow for life? I never thought to marry an En- 
glish woman, but. I'll marry you to-morrow, if you'll have 
me. What d'ye say? Is it a go?" 

It was rarely, indeed. Miss Silver lost her admirable 
presence of mind, but for a moment she lost it entirely 
now. She fairly gasped for breath in her complete amaze- 
ment. Only for a moment, though. Then as the utter 
absurdity of the affair struck her she went off into an in- 
extinguishable fit of laughter. 

“ You don't mean it, Mr. Parmalee?" as soon as she 
could speak. 

“ I do!" said Mr. Parmalee, with emphasis. Laugh, 
if you like. It's kind of sudden, 1 suppose, but I've had 
a hankering after you this some time. Your a right 
smart kind of girl, and jest my style, and I like you tip- 
top. The way you can roll up them black eyes of yours at 
a fellow is a caution to rattlesnakes. Say, is it a go?" 

Sybilla turned away. Her dark cheeks reddened. 
There was a moment's hesitation, then she turned back 
and extended her hand. 

“ You are not very romantic, Mr. Parmalee. You don't 
ask me for my love, or any of that sentimental nonsense," 
with a laugh. “ And you really mean it — you really mean 
to make Lady Kingsland's poor companion your wife?" 

“ Never meant anything more in my life. It is a go, 
then?" 

“ I will marry you, Mr. Parmalee, if you desire it." 

“And you won't go back on a fellow?" asked Mr. 
Parmalee, suspiciously. “You're not fooling me just to 
get at this secret, are you?" 

Sybilla drew away her hand with an offended air. 

“ Think better of me, Mr. Parmalee! I may be shrewd 
enough to guess at your secret without being base enough 
to tell a deliberate lie to know it. I could, find it out by 
easier means." 

“ I don't know about that," said the artist, coolly. “ It 
ain't likely Lady Kingsland would tell you, and you 
couldn’t get it out of me, you know, if you was twice as 
clever, unless I chose. But I want you to help me. A 
man always gets along better in these little underhand 
matters when he's got a woman going partners with him. 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 135 

I want to see my lady. I want to send her a note all un- 
beknown to the baronet. 

“ 1^11 deliver said Sybilla, promptly; “ and if she 
chooses to see you, I will manage that Sir Everard will not 
intrude. 

“ She’ll see me fast enough. I thought she’d want to 
see me herself before this, but it appears she’s inclined to 
hold out; so I’ll drop her a hint in writing. If the 
mountain won’t dome to what’s-his-name— you know what 
I mean. Miss ^Iver. I suppose 1 may call you Sybilla 
now?” / 

“ Oh, undoubtedly, Mr. Parmalee! But for the pres- 
ent don’t you think — just to keep people’s tongues quiet, 
you know — had we not better keep this little private com- 
pact to ourselves? I don’t want the gossiping servants of 
the house to gossip in the kitchen conclave about you and 
me.” 

Mr. Parmalee gave one of his sapient nods. 

“Just as you please. I don’t care a darn for their gos- 
siping, though. And now about that little note. I want 
to see my lady before I explain thing's to you, you know.” 

“ And why? You don’t intend to tell her I am to be 
taken into your confidence, I suppose?” 

“ Not much!” said Mr. Parmalee, emphatically. 
“ Never you mind, Sybilla. Before you become Mrs. P., 
you’ll know it all safe enough. I’ll write it at once.” 

He took a stumpy lead-pencil from his pocket, tore a 
leaf out of his pocket-book, and wrote these words: 

“ My Lady, — You knew the picture, and I know your 
secret. Should like to see you, if convenient, soon. That 
person is in London waiting to hear from me. 

“ Your most obedient, 

“ G. W. Parmalee.” 

The photographer handed the scrawl to Sybilla. 

“iteadit.” 

“ Well?” she said, taking it all in at a glance. 

“ Give her this. She’ll see me before 1 leave this house, 
or I’m much mistaken. She’s a very handsome and a 
very proud lady, this baronet’s bridge; but for all that 
she’ll obey G. W. Parmalee’s orders, or he’ll know the 
reason why.” 


136 


THE BARONET'^S BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MISS SILVER PLAYS HER FIRST CARD. 

It was all very well for Sir Everard Kin^slaDd to ride 
his high horse in the presence of Miss Sybilla Silver, and 
superbly rebuke her suspicions of his wife, but her words 
had planted their sting, nevertheless. 

He was one of those unhappy men who are “ inclined to 
be jealous ” — men in whose breast suspicion, once planted, 
flourishes forever. His face was very dark as he paced 
up and down the library, revolving over and over the few 
light words his protegee had dropped. 

He loved his beautiful, imperious, gray-eyed wife with so 
absorbing and intense a love that the faintest doubt of her 
was torture inexpressible. 

“ I remember it all now,^' he said to himself, setting his 
teeth; “ she was agitated at sight of that picture. She 
turned, with the strangest look in her face I ever saw 
there, to the American, and rose abruptly from the table 
immediately after. She has not been herself since; she 
has not once left her room. Is she afraid of meeting that 
man? Is there any secret in her life that he shares? 
What do I know of her past life, save that she has been 
over the world with her father? Good Heaven! if she and 
this strange man should have a secret between them, after 
alir’ 

The cold drops acthally stood on his brow at the thought. 
The fierce, indomitable pride of his haughty race and the 
man^s own inward jealousy made the bare suspicion agony. 
But a moment after, and with a sudden impulse of gener- 
ous love, he recoiled from his own thoughts. 

“lam a wretch, he thought, “ a traitor to the best 
and most beautiful of brides, to harbor such an unworthy 
idea! What! shall I doubt my darling girl because Sybilla 
Silver thinks she recognized that portrait, or because an 
inquisitive, stranger chooses to ask questions? No! 1 could 
stake my life on her perfect truth and purity — my own 
dear wife.^’ 

Impulsively he turned to go; at once he must seek her, 
and set every doubt at rest. He ascended rapidly to her 
room and softly tapped at the door. There was no an- 


JHE BARONET^S BRIDE. 137 

swer. He knocked again; still no response. He turned 
the handle and went in. 

She was asleep. Lyiug on a sofa, among a heap of pil- 
lows, arrayed in a white dressing-gown, her profuse dark 
hair all loose and disordered. Lady Kingsland lay, so pro- 
foundly sleeping that her husband^s knocking had not dis- 
turbed her. Her face was as white as her robe, and her 
eyelashes were wet, as though she had cried herself to sleep 
like a child. 

She had not closed an eye the livelong night before, and 
here, in the quiet of the early morning, she had dropped 
off into the profound slumber that no trouble can long 
keep from the young and the healthy. 

The handsome face of Everard Kingsland softened and 
grew luminous with unutterable love. 

“My love! my darling!^' He knelt beside her and 
kissed her passionately. “ And to think that for one sec- 
ond I was base enough to doubt you! My beautiful, inno- 
cent darling, slumbering here, like a very child! No 
earthly power shall ever sunder you and me!^’ 

A pair of deriding black eyes flashed upon him through 
the partly open door — a pair of greedy ears drank in the 
softly murmured words. Sybilla Silver, hastening along 
with the artistes little note, had caught sight of the baronet 
entering his wife^s room. She tapped discreetly at the 
door, with the twisted note held conspicuously in her hand. 

Sir Everard arose and opened it, and Miss Silver^s sud- 
den recoil was the perfection of confusion and surprise. 

“ 1 beg your pardon. Sir Everard. My lady is — is she 
not here?^^ 

“ Lady Kingsland is asleep. Do you wish to deliver 
that note?” 

With a second gesture of seeming confusion, Sybilla hid 
the hand which held it in the folds of her dress. 

“ Yes — no — it doesnT matter. It can wait, I dare say. 
He didn’t mention being in a hurry.” 

‘ “He! Of whom are you speaking, Sybilla?” 

. “ I — I chanced to pass through the picture-gallery flve 
minutes ago. Sir Everard, and Mr. Parmalee asked me to 
do him the favor of handing this note to my lady.” 

Sir Everard Kingsland’s face was the face of a man ut- 
terly confounded. 

“ Mr. Parmalee asked you to deliver that note to Lady 


138 


THE BAROXET'S bride. 


Kingsland?^^ he slowly repeated. “ What under heaven 
can he have to write to my lady about?^’ 

“ 1 really donH know. Sir Everard,^' rejoined Sybilla, 
her characteristic, composure seeming all at once to return. 
“ I only know he asked me to deliver it. He had been 
looking for my lady^s maid, 1 fancy, in vain. It is prob- 
ably something about his tiresome pictures. Will you 
please to take it. Sir Everard, or shall I wait until my lady 
awakes?^^ 

“You may leave it.^’ 

He spoke the words mechanically, quite stunned by the 
overwhelming fact that this audacious photographic person 
dared to write to his wife. Miss Silver passed him, placed 
the twisted paper on one of the inlaid tables, and left the 
room with a triumphant light in her deriding black eyes. 

“T have trumped my first trick, Sybilla thought, as 
she walked away, “ and I fancy the game will be all my 
own shortly. Sir Everard will open and read Mr. Parma- 
lee^s little MUet-doux the instant he is alone. 

But just here Sybilla was mistaken. Sir Everard did 
not open the tempting twisted note. He glanced at it once 
with a darkly lowering brow as it lay on the table, but he 
made no attempt to take it. 

“She will show it to me when she awakes,^' he said, 
with compressed lips, “ and then I will have this imperti- 
nent Yankee kicked from the house.^^ 

He sat beside her, watching her while she slept, with a 
face quite colorless between conflicting love and torturing 
doubt. His wife held some secret with this strange man. 
That one thought in itself was enough to drive him wild. 

Nearly an hour passed before Harriet awoke. The great 
dark eyes opened in wide surprise at sight of that pale, in- 
tense face bending so devotedly over her. 

“ You here, Everard?’’ she said, sitting up and pushing 
away the tangled mass of waving hair. “ How long have 
I been asleep? How long have you been here?” 

“ Over an hour, Harrie.” 

“ So long? 1 had no idea of going asleep when 1 lay 
down; but my head ached with a dull, hopeless pain, and — 
What is that?” 

She broke ofi in what she was saying to ask the question 
abruptly. She had caught sight of the note lying on the 
table. 


THE BAROHET's BRIDE. 139 

Iler husband fixed his eyes keenly on her face, and an- 
swered, with measured slowness: 

“ You will scarcely believe it, but that stranger — that 
American artist — has had the impertinence to address that 
note to you. Sybilla Silver brought it here. Shall I ring 
for your maid and send it back unopened, and order him 
out of the house for his pains?^^ 

“ No!’^ said Harriet, impetuously. “ I must read it — 
1 must see what he says.^^ 

She snatched it up. She tore it open, and, walking over 
to the window, read the scrawl. So long she stood there 
that she might have read over two dozen such. 

“ Harriet 

She turned slowly round at her name spoken by her hus- 
band as that adoring husband had never spoken it before, 
and faced him, white to the very lips. 

“ Give me that note.^' 

He held out his hand. She crushed it firmly in her own, 
looking him straight in the eyes. 

“ 1 can not ^ 

“ You can not?’^ he repeated, slowly, deathly pale. 
“ Do 1 understand you aright, Harriet? Remember, 1 left 
that note untouched while you slept, waiting for you to 
show it to me. No man has a right a address a note to 
my wife that I may not see. Show me that paper Har- 
riet 

“ It is nothing — she caught her breath in a quick, 
gasping, affrighted way as she said it— “ it is nothing, 
Everard! Don’t ask me 

“ If it is nothing, I may surely see it Harriet, I com- 
mand you! Show me that note!” 

The eyes of Captain Hunsden’s daughter inflamed up 
fierce and bright at sound of that imperious word com- 
mand, She drew her slender figure with sudden, imperial 
grace to its fullest height. 

“ And I don’t choose to be commanded — not if you were 
my king as well as my husband. You shall never see it 
now!’^ 

There was a wood-fire leaping up on the marble hearth. 
She flung the note impetuously as she spoke into the midst 
of the flames. One bright jet of flame, and it was gone. 

Husband and wife stood facing each other, he deathly 


140 


THE baronet’ S BRIDE. 


white, she flushed and defiant. He was the first to speak 
—the first to turn away. 

“ And this is the woman I loved — the wife I trusted — 
my bride of one short month.” 

He had turned to quit the room, but two impetuous 
arms were around his neck, two impulsive lips covering 
his face with penitent, imploring kisses. 

“Forgive me — forgive me!” Harriet cried.' “My 
dear, my true, my cherished husband! Oh, what a wicked, 
ungrateful creature I am! What a wretch you must think 
me! And 1 can not — I can not — I can not tell you.” 

She broke out suddenly into a storm of hysterical crying, 
clinging to his neck. 

He took her in his arms, “ more in sorrow than in 
anger,” sat down with her on the sofa, and let her sob 
herself still. His face was stern and set as stone. 

“ And now, Harriet,” he said, when the hysterical sobs 
were hushed, “ who is this man, and what is he to you?” 

She answered him at ouce, to his surprise, passionately, 
almost fiercely: 

“ He is nothing to me — less than nothing! I hate him!” 

“ Where did you know him before?” 

“ Know him before?” She sat up and looked him half 
angrily in the face. “ I never knew him before! I never 
set eyes on him until I saw him here.” 

Sir Everard drew a long breath of intense relief. 'No 
one could doubt her perfect truth, and his worst suspicion 
was at rest. 

“ Then what is this secret between you two? For there 
is a secret, Harriet.” 

“There is.” 

He drew his hands away from her with a sudden motion. 

“ What is it, Harriet?” 

“ I can not tell you. ” 

“ Harriet!” - 

“ I can not.” She turned deathly white as she said it, 
but her eyes met his unflinchingly. “ Never, Ever.ard ! 
There is a secret, but a secret I can never reveal, even to 
you. Don’t ask me— don’t! If you ever loved me, try 
and trust me now!” 

There was a blank pause. She tried to clasp him, but 
he held her sternly off. 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


141 


“ One question more; You knew this secret before you 
married me?’^ 

“I did.’’ 

Her head drooped for the first time, and a scarlet suffu- 
sion dyed face and neck. 

“ For how long?” 

“ For a year.” 

“ And that picture the American showed you is a pict- 
ure you know.” 

She looked up at him, a wild startled light in her great 
gray eyes. 

“ How do you know that?” 

“lam answered,” he said. “ 1 see 1 am right. Once 
more. Lady Kingsland,” his voice cold and clear, “you 
refuse to tell me?” 

“ I must. Oh, Everard, for pity’s sake, trust me! 1 
can not tell you — I dare not!” 

“ Enough, madame! Your accomplice shall!” 

He turned to go. She made a step between him and the 
door. 

“ What are you going to do? Tell m6, for 1 will know!” 

“ 1 am going to the man who shares your guilty secret, 
madame; and, by the Heaven above us. I’ll have the truth 
out of him if I have to tear it from his throat! Out of 
my way, before I forget you are a woman and strike you 
down at my feet!” 

She staggered back, with a low cry, as if he had struck 
her indeed. He strode past, his step ringing, his eyes 
flashing, his face livid with jealous rage, straight to the 
jiicture-gallery. 

A door at the opposite side of the corridor stood ajar. 
Sybilla Silver’s listening ears heard the last fierce words, 
Sybilla Silver’s glittering black eyes saw that last passion- 
ate gesture of repulsion. She saw Harriet, Lady Kings- 
Jand — the bride of a month — sink down on the oaken floor, 
quivering in mortal anguish from head to foot; and her 
tall form seemed to tower and dilate with diabolical de- 
light. 

“Not one year,” she cried to her exultant heart— “ not 
one month will I have to wait for my revenge! Lie there, 
poor fool!” with a backward glance of passionate scorn at 
the prostrate figure, “ and suffer and die, for what 1 care, 
while I go and prevent your madly jealous husband from 


U2 


THE BARONET S BRIDE. 


braining my precious fiance. There is to be blood on 
the hands and the brand of Cain on the brow of the last of 
the Kingslands, or my oath will not be kept; but it must 
not be the ignobje blood of George Washington Parmalee!'^ 
She glided away as she spoke, with the swift, serpentine 
grace peculiar to her, to make a third actor in a stormy 
scene. 


CHAPTER XX. 

MR. PARMALEE SWEARS VENGEANCE. 

Sir Everard strode straight to the picture-gallery, his 
face pale, his eyes flashing, his hands clinched. 

His step rang like steel along the polished oaken floor, 
and there was an ominous compression of his thin lips that 
might have warned Mr. Parmalee of the storm to come. 
But Mr. Parmalee was squinting through his apparatus at 
a grim, old warrior on the wall, and only just glanced up 
to nod recognition. 

“ Morning, Sir Everard!^’ said the artist, pursuing his 
work. “ Fine day for our business — uncommon spring- 
like. You’ve got a gay old lot of ancestors here, and an- 
cestresses; and stunningly handsome some of ’em is, too, 
and no mistake!” 

“ Spare your compliments, sir,” said the baronet, in 
tones of suppressed rage, “ and spare me your presence 
here for the future altogether! The sooner you pack your 
traps and leave this, the surer you will be of finding your- 
self with a sound skin.” 

“ Hey.^” cried Mr. Parmalee, astounded. “ What in 
thunder do you mean?” 

“ I mean that I order you out of my house this instant, 
and that I’ll break every bone in your" villainous carcass if 
ever I catch you inside my gates again!” 

The artist dropped his tools and stood blankly staring. 

“ By ginger! Why, Sir Everard Kingsland, I don’t un- 
derstand this here! You told me yourself I might come 
here and take the pictures. 1 call this doosed unhand- 
some treatment — I do, by George! going back on a feller 
like this!” 

“ You audacious scoundrel!” roared the enraged young 
lord of Kingsland, “ how dare you presume to answer me? 
How dare you stand there and look me in the face? If 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 143 

I called my servants and made them lash you outside the 
gates, I would only serve you right! You low-bred, im- 
pertinent ruffian, how dare you write to my wife?” 

It all burst upon Mr. Parmalee like a thunder-clap — ■ 
the baronet had seen his note. 

“ Whew!” he whistled, long and shrill, “that's it, is 
it? The cat's out of the bag; the fat's in the fire, and all 
a-sizzin'! Look here. Sir Everard, don’t you get so tearin' 
mad all for nothing. I didn’t write no disrespect to her 
ladyship — I didn't, by Jupiter! Miss Silver oan tell you 
so, if you've a mind to ask her, or my lady herself, for that 
matter. I jest had a little request to make, and if I could 
have seen her ladyship I wouldn't have writ at all, but she 
kept out of my way, and—'' 

“ You scoundrel!” cried the passionate young baronet, 
white with fury, “ do you mean to say my wife kept out of 
your way— was afraid of you?” 

“Exactly so, squire,” replied the imperturbable for- 
eigner. “ She must ’a’ known I had something to say to 
her yesterday when 1— Well, she knowed it, and she 
kept out of my way— I say it again.” 

The baronet's face was perfectly livid with suppressed 
rage. 

“ And you dare tell me there is a secret between my 
wife and you? Are you not afraid 1 will throw you out of 
yonder window?” 

Mr. Parmalee drew himself stiffly up. 

“ Not if I know myself! That is a game two can play 
at. As for the secret,” with a sudden sneer, “ I ain't no 
desire to keep it a secret if your wife ain't. Ask her. Sir 
Everard, and if she’s willing to tell you, I'm sartin I am. 
But 1 don't think she will, by gosh!” 

The sneering mockery of the last taunt was too much 
for the fiery young prince of Kingsland. With the yell of 
an enraged tiger he sprung upon Mr. Parmalee, hurled 
him to the ground in a twinkling, and twisted his left 
hand into Mr. Parmalee's blue cotton neckerchief, show- 
ering blows with his right fast and furious. 

The attack was so swift and savage that Mr. Parmalee 
lay perfectly stunned and helpless, turning unpleasantly 
black in the^face, his eyes staring, the blood gushing. 

Kneeling on his fallen foe, with fiery face and distended 
eyes. Sir Everard looked for the moment an incarnate 


144 


THE baronet's BRTDE. 


young demon. It flashed upon him, swift as lightning, in 
iiis sudden madness, what he was about. 

“ I'll murder him if I stay here," he thought; and as 
the thought crossed his mind, with a shriek and a swish of 
silk, in rushed Miss Silver and flung herself between them. 

“ Good Heaven! Sir Everard, have you gone mad? In 
mercy's name, stop before you have quite murdered him!" 

Sir Everard sprung to his feet, ghastly still, with furious, 
flaming eyes and blood-bespattered face. 

“ Dog — cur!" he cried, spurning the sprawling artist 
with his boot. “ Get up and quit my house, or, by the 
living light above us, I'll blow your brains out as I would 
a mad hound's!" 

He swung round and strode out of the picture-gallery, 
and slowly, slowly arose the prostrate hero, with bloody 
face and blackened eyes. With an utterly blank and pite- 
ous expression of face, Mr. Parmalee sat and gazed around, 
and, in spite of the tragic nature of the occurrence, it was 
all Sybilla could do to keep from laughing. 

“ Get up, Mr. Parmalee," she said, “ and go away at 
once. The woman at the lodge will give you soap and 
water and a towel, and you can make yourself decent be- 
fore entering the village. If you don't hurry you'll need 
a guide. Your eyes are as large as bishop pippins, and 
closing fast now. " 

She nearly laughed again, this tender fiancee, as she as- 
sisted her slaughtered betrothed to his feet. Mr. Parmalee 
wiped the blood out of his eyes and looked dizzily about 
him. 

“ Where is he?" he gasped. 

“ Sir Everard? He has gone, after belaboring you 
soundly. I believe he would have killed you outright only 
I came in and tore him off. What on earth did you say 
to infuriate him so?" 

“ I say?" exclaimed the artist, fiercely. “ I said noth- 
ing, and you know it. It was you, you confounded De- 
lilah, you mischief-making deceiver, who showed him that 
air note!" 

“ I protest I did nothing of the sort!" cried Sybilla, in- 
dignantly. “ He was in my lady's room when 1 entered, 
and he saw the note in my hand. She was asleep, and I 
tried to escape and take the note with me, but he ordered 
me to leave it and go. Of course I had to obey. If he 


THE BAKOiq-ET’S BRIDE. 145 

read it, it was no fault of mine; but 1 don’t believe he did. 
You have no right to blame me, Mr. Parmalee.” 

Mr. Parmalee ground out a savage oath between his 
clinched teeth. 

“ I’ll be even with him for this, the insulting young 
aristocrat! I’ll not spare him now! I’ll spread the. news 
far and wide; the very birds in the trees shall sing it, the 
story of his wife’s shame! I’ll lower that cursed pride of 
his before another month is over his head, and I’ll have 
his handsome wife on her knees to me, as sure as my name’s 
Parmalee! He knocked me down, and he beat me to a 
jelly, did he? and he ordered me out of his house; and 
he’ll shoot me like a mad dog, will he? But I’ll be even 
with him; I’ll fix him off! I’ll make him repent the day 
he ever lifted his hand to G. W. Parmalee!” 

Miss Silver listened to his eloquent outburst of ieeling 
with greedy, glistening black eyes, and patted her lover 
soothingly on the shoulder. 

“ So you shall. I like to hear you talk like that. 
You’re a glorious fellow, George, and Sybilla will help 
you; for, listen ” — she came close and hissed the words in 
a venomous whisper— “ I hate Sir Everard Kingsland and 
all his race, and I hate his upstart wife, with her high 
and mighty airs, and I would see them both dead at my 
feet with all the pleasure in life!” 

“ You get out!” rejoined Mr. Parmalee, recoiling and 
clapping his hand to his ear. “ I told you before, Sybilja, 
not to whistle in a fellow’s ear like that. It goes through 
a chap like cold steel. As to your hating them, I believe 
in my soul you hate most people; and women like you, 
with big, flashing black eyes, are apt to be uncommon good 
haters, too. But what have they done to you? I always 
took ’em to be good friends to you, my girl. ” 

Sybilla Silver laughed— a hard laugh and mirthless, and 
most unpleasant to hear. 

“ You have read the fable, Mr. Parmalee, of the man 
who found the frozen adder, and who warmed and cher- 
ished it in his bosom, until he restored it to life? Well, 
Sir Everard found me, homeless, friendless, penniless, and 
he took me with him, and fed me, clothed me, protected 
me, and treated me like a sister. The adder in the fable 
stung its preserver to death. 1, Mr. Parmalee, if you ever 


146 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


feel inclined to poison Sir Everard, will mix the potion and 
hold the bowl, and watch his death-throes!” 

Mr. Parmalee looked at the beautiful speaker in aston- 
ishment not unmixed with disgust. Her eyes shone like 
midnight stars, and a light such as might fitly illuminate 
King Lucifer’s irradiated her dusky beauty. 

“ Go along with you!” said the American, beginning to 
collect his traps. “ You’re a bad one, you are, if ever 
there was a bad one yet! I don’t like such lingo — I don’t, 
by George! 1 never took you for an angel, but 1 vow I 
didn’t think you were the cantankerous little toad you are! 
I don’t set up to be a saint myself, and if a man knocks me 
down and pummels my innards out for nothin’, I calculate 
to fix his Hint, if I can; but you— shoo! you’re a little devil 
on airth, and that’s my opinion of you. ” 

Sybilla’s eyes flashed, half in amusement, half in anger. 

“ With such a complimentary opinion of me, then, Mr. 
Parmalee, I presume our late partnership is dissolved?” 

“ Nothing of the sort! I like grit, and if you’ve got 
^rayther more than your share, why, when you’re Mrs. 
* Parmalee it will be amusing to take it out of you. And 
now I’m off, and by all that’s great and glorious, there’ll 
be howling and gnashing of teeth in this here old shop 
before I return.” 

“ You go without seeing my lady, then?” said Sybilla. 

“My lady’s got to come to me!” retorted the artist, 
sullenly. “It’s her turn to eat humble pie now, and 
she’ll finish the dish, by George, before I’ve done with her! 
I’m going back to the tavern, down the village, and so you 
can tell her; and if she wants me, she can put her pride 
in her pocket and come there and find me. ” 

_ “ And 1, too?” said Sybilla, anxiously, keeping by his 
side as Mr. Parmalee stalked in sulky displeasure along. 
“ Pememeber your promise to reveal all to me, George. 
Am 1 to seek you out at the inn, too, and await your sov- 
ereign pleasure?” 

She laid her hands on his shoulders and looked up in his 
face with eyes few men could resist. They were quite 
alone in the vast hall — no prying eyes to see that tender 
caress. Mr. Parmalee was a good deal of a stoic and a 
little of a cynic; but he was flesh and blood, as even stoics 
and cynics are when you come down to the fine thing, and 


THE EAKU^’ET’S BKIDE. 


147 


the man under sixty was not born who could have resisted 
that dark, bewitching, wheedling, beautiful face. 

The American artist took her in his long arms with a 
vigorous hug, and favored her with a sounding kiss. 

“ ITl tell you, Sybilla. Hanged if I donT believe you 
can twist me round your little finger if you choose! Youh’e 
as pretty as a picture — you are, I swear, and I love you 
like all creation; and Ifil marry yotu. just as soon as this 
little business is settled, and I’ll take you to Maine, and 
keep you in the tallest sort of clover. I never calk’lated on 
having a British gal for a wife; but you’re handsome enough 
and spunky enough for a president’s lady, and I don’t care 
a darn what the folks round our section say about it. I’ll 
tell you, Sybilla; but you mustn’t split to a living soul, or 
my cake’s dough. They say a woman can’t keep a secret; 
but you must try, if you should burst for it. I reckon my 
lady will come down handsomely before I’ve done with 
. her, and you and me, Sybilla, can go to housekeeping 
across the three thousand miles of everlasting wet in .tip- 
top style. Come to-night; you’ve got to come’'fo ife^ubw. 
It’s as much as a fellow’s life is worthier set Yoot here any ' 
more; and, by gracious! I ain’t goinglb get thrash^ by 
the flunkies for all the baronets and thefr brideg this'sid^e 
of kingdom come!” 

“ No,” Sybilla said, thoughtfully; “ of course not. And 
1 must go with yon no further, lest we should be seen to- 
gether and our intimacy suspected. I suppose 1 will find 
you at the inn?” 

“ I suppose so. ’Tain’t likely,” said Mr. Parmalee, with 
a sulky sense of injury, “ you’ll find me prancing up and 
d own the village with this here face. I’ll get the old woman 
to do it up in brown paper and vinegar when I go home, 
and I’ll stay abed and smoke until dark. You won’t come 
afore dark, will you?” 

“ No; 1 .don’t want to be recognized; and you must be 
prepared to come out with me when I do. I’ll disguise 
myself. Ah! suppose 1 disguise myself in men’s clothes? 
You won’t mind, will you?” 

“ By gosh! no, if you don’t. Men’s clothes! What a 
rum one you are. Miss Silver? Doosed good-looking little 
feller you’ll make. But why are you so skeery about it?” 

“ Why? Need you ask? Would Sir Everard permit me 
to remain in his house one hour if he suspected I was his 


148 


THE BAKONET’S BRIDE. 


enemy^s friend? Have you any message to deliver to my 
lady before we part?” 

“ No. She'll send a message to me during the day, or 
I'm mistaken. If she don’t, why. I'll send one back with 
you to-night. By-bye, Mrs. Parmalee that is to be. Take 
care of yourself until to-night." 

The gentleman walked down the stair- way alone toward 
a side entrance. The lady stood on the landing above, 
looking after him with a bitter, sneering smile. 

“Mrs. Parmalee, indeed! You besotted idiot — you 
blind, conceited fool! Twist you round my little finger, 
can I? Yes, you great, hulking simpleton, and ten times 
better men! Let me worm your secret out of you — let me 
squeeze my sponge dry, and then see howl'll fling you into 
your native gutter!'' 

Mr. Parmalee, on his way out, stopped at the pretty . 
rustic lodge and bathed his swollen and discolored visage. 
The lodge-keeper's wife was all sympathy and questions. 
How on earth did, it happen? 

“ Eun up. against the 'lectric telegraph, ma'am," re- 
plied Mr. Parmalee, sulkily; “and there was a message 
coming full speed, and it knocked me over. Morning. 
Much obliged." 

He walked away. Outside the gates he paused and 
shook his clinched fist menacingly at the noble old house. 

“I'll pay you out, my fine feller, if ever I get a chance! 
You're a very great man, and a very proud man. Sir Ever- 
ard Kingsland, and you own a fine fortune and a haughty, 
handsome wife, and G. W. Parmalee's no more than the 
mud under your feet. Very well — we'll see! ‘ Every dog 
has his day,'- and ‘ the longest lane has its turning,' and 
you're near about the end of your tether, and George 
Parmalee has you and your fine lady under his thumb — 
under his thumb — and he'll Crush you, sir — yes, by Heaven, 
he'll crush you, and strike you b^ck blow for blow!" 

Shaking the dust of Kingsland off his feet, Mr. Par- 
malee stalked like a sulky lion back to the Blue Bell Inn, 
and electrified everybody there by the transformation he 
had so suddenly undergone. 

True to his word, he ordered unlimited supplies of brown 
paper and vinegar, rum and water, pipes and tobacco, 
swore at his questioners, and adjourned to his bedroom to 
await the coming of nightfall and Sybilla Silver. 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


140 


Tlie short winter day wore on. A good conscience^, a 
sound digestion, rum -and smoke ad libitum, enabled our 
wounded artist to sleep comfortably through it, and he was 
still snoring vociferously when Mrs. Wedge, the landlady, 
came to his bedside with a flaring tallow candle, and woke 
him up. 

“ Which Tve been a-knockin^ and a-knockin%^^ Mrs. 
Wedge cried, shrilly, “ fit to knock the skin off my blessed 
knuckles, _ Mr. Parmalee, and couldn't wake you no 
more'n the dead. And he's a- waitin' down-stairs, which 
he won't come up, but says it's most particular, and must 
see you at once," 

“ Hol'd your noise!" growled the artist, tumbling out of 
bed. “ What's o'clock? Leave that candle and clear out, 
and tell the young feller I'll be down in a brace of shakes. 
It is a young fellow, isn't it?" 

“ I couldn't see him," replied Mrs. Wedge, “ which he's 
that muffled up in a long cloak and a cap drawed down 
that his own mother herself couldn't tell him hout there 
in the dark. W^as you a-expectin' of him, sir?" 

“ That's no husiness of yours, Mrs. \yedge," the Amer- 
ioaCrvmSWefed, grimly. “ You can go." ' 

- Mrs. Wedge departed in displeasure, and tried again to 
see the muffled stranger. But he was looking out into the 
starlit darkness, and the good landlady was completely 

baffled. , , , 

She saw her lodger join him; she saw the hero of the 
cloak take his arm, and both walk briskly away. 

“ By George! this is a disguise!" exclaimed Mr. Parma- 
lee. “ 1 wouldn't recognize you at noonday, Sybilla, in 
this trim. Do you know who I took you for until you 
spoke?" 

“ Whom?" - ^ . 

“ Sir Everard himself. You're as like him as two peas 

in that rig, only not so tall." 

“ The cloak and cap are his," Miss Silver answered, 
“ wliich perhaps accounts — " , • i • 

But Mr. Parmalee, watching her curiously, shook his 

he said, “ there's more than that. I might put 
on that cap and cloak, but I wouldn't look like the b^ip 
onet. Y^our voices sound alike, and there's a general air 


150 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 

—1 can't describe it, but you know what I mean. You're 
no relation of his, are you, Sybilla?" 

Sybilla laughed— the strangest laugh. 

“ A relation of the Prince of Kiugsland— poor little 
Sybilla Silver! My good Mr. Parmalee, what an absurd 
idea! You do me proud even to hint that the blue blood 
of all the Kingslands could by any chance flow in these 
plebeian veins! Oh, no, indeed! I am only an upper serv- 
ant in that great house, and would lose my place within 
the hour if its lordly master dreamed 1 was here talking to 
the man he hates. How is your poor face, Mr. Parmalee?" 

Miss Silver's voice faltered a little as she put the ques- 
tion, perhaps with inward pain, perhaps with inward 
laughter — her companion couldn’t tell, in that dim star- 
light. They had left the village behind them, and were 
out on the breezy common. 

“And my lady," the artist asked — “ any news from 
her?" 

“ Not a word. She came down to dinner beautifully 
dressed, but white as the snow lying yonder. She and Sir 
Everard dined Ute-a-Ute, I take my meal^ ^ith Wie 
housekeeper, now," smiling bitterly. “ My Lady Harriet 
doesn't like me. The butler told me they did not speak 
six words during the whole time of dinner." 

“ Both in the sulks," said Mr. Parmalee. “ Well, it's 
natural. He’s dying 'to know, and she'll be torn to pieces 
afore she breathes a word. She's that sort. But this 
shyin' and holding off won't do with me. I'm getting tired 
of waiting, and — and so’s another party up to London. 
Tell her so, Sybilla, with G. W. P.'s compliments, and 
say that I give her just two more days, and if she doesn't 
come to book before the end of that time. I'll sell her 
secret to the highest bidder." 

“ Yes!" Sybilla said, breathlessly; “ and now for that 
secret, George!" 

“ You won't tell?" cried Mr. Parmalee, a little alarmed 
at this precipitation. “ Say you won't — never — so helj) 
you!" 

“ Never— I swear it. Now go on I" 

' * ^ Hi ^ 

- An hour later, Sybilla Silver, in her impenetrable dis- 
guise, re-entered Kiugsland Court. No one had seen her 


THE BAROKET's BRIBE. 151 

go — no one saw her return. She gained her own room 
and took off her disguise unobserved. 

Once only on her way to it she had paused— before my 
lady’s door — and the dark, beautiful face, wreathed with 
a deadly smile of hate and exultation, was horribly trans- 
formed to the face of a malignant, merciless, all-powerful 
demon. 


CHAPTER XXL 

A STORM BREWING. 

The fever of love, the fever of jealousy, like other chills 
and fevers, have their hot spells and their cold ones. 

Sir Everard Kingsland was blazing in the very hottest 
of the flame when he tore himself forcibly away from the 
artist and buried himself in his study. The unutterable 
degradation of it all, the horrible humiliation that this 
man and his wife — his — were bound together by some 
mysterious secret, nearly drove him mad. 

“ Where there is mystery there must be guilt!” he 
fiercely thought. “ Nothing under heaven can make it 
right for a wife to have a secret from her husband. And 
she knew it, and concealed it before she married me, and 
means to deceive me until the end. In a week her name 
and that of this low-bred ruffian will be bandied together 
throughout the country. Good heavens, the thought is 
enough to drive me mad!” 

And then, like a man mad indeed, he tore up and down 
the apartment, his hands clinched, his face ghastly, his 
eyes bloodshot. And then — oh, strange and incompre- 
hensible insanity of passion! — all doubts and fears were 
swept away, and love rushed back in an impetuous torrent, 
and he knew that to lose her were ten thousand times 
worse than death. 

“ My beautiful! my own! my darling! May Heaven pity 
us both! for be your secret what it may, I can not lose you 
— Lean not! Life without you were tenfold worse than the 
bitterest death! My own poor girl! 1 know she suffers, 
too,' for this miserable secret, this sin of others — for such 
it must be. She looked up in my face with truthful, inno- 
cent eyes, and told me she never saw this man until she 
met him that day in the librai^, and 1 know she spoke the 
truth! My love, my wife! You asked me to trust you, 


152 THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 

and I thrust you aside! I spoke and acted like a brute! 1 
will trust you! 1 will wait! 1 will never doubt you again, 
my own beloved bride !’^ 

And then, in a paroxysm of love and remorse, the young 
husband strode out of the library and upstairs to his wife^s 
room, lie found her alone, sitting by the window, in her 
loose white morning-robe, a book lying idly on her knee, 
herself whiter than the dress she wore. She was not read- 
ing — the book lay listless, the dark eyes looked straight be- 
fore them with an unutterable pathos that it wrung his 
heart to see. 

“ My love! my life!^^ He had her in his strong arms, 
strained to his breast as if he never meant to let her go. 
“ My own dear Ilarrie! Can you ever forgive me for the 
brutal words I used — for the brutal way 1 acted?'’ 

She gave a low cry of joy, and sunk down on his breast 
with a look of such infinite love and thankfulness that it 
haunted him to his dying day. 

“My Everard! my beloved husband! My darling! my 
darling! You are not — you will not be angry with your 
poor little Harrie?” 

“ I could not, my life! What is the world worth to us 
if we can not love and trust? I do love you, God alone 
knows how well! I will trust you, though all the world 
should rise up against you! ” 

Again that cry of joy— again that clinging, straining 
clasp. 

“Thank Heaven! thank Heaven! Everard, dearest, I 
can not tell you — I can not— how miserable 1 have been! 
If I lost your love 1 should die! Trust me, my husband 
— trust me! Love me! I have no one left in the wide 
world but you!” 

She broke down in a wild storm of womanly weeping. 
He held her in silence — the hysterics did her good. He 
only knew that he loved her with a passionate, consuming 
love, and not ten million secrets could keep them apart. 

Presently she raised her head and looked at him, very 
pale, and with wild, wide eyes of fear. 

“ Everard, have you — have you seen that man?” 

His heart contracted with a sudden sharp pang, but he 
strove to restrain himself and be calm. 

“ Parmalee? Y"es, Harrie; I left him not an ‘hour ago.” 

“ And he — Everard, for God’s sake — ” 


THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 


153 


Her white lips refused to finish the sentence. 

“ He told me nothing, Harrie/'’ and the bitterness of his 
heart tinged his voice in spite of himself. “ You and he 
keep your secrets well. He told me nothing, and he is 
gone. He will never come back here more.^' 

He looked at her keenly, suspiciously, as he said it. 
Alas! the intermittent fever was taking its hot fit again. 
But she dropped her face on his shoulder and hid it.. 

“ Has he left the villasre, Everard?’^ very faintly. 

“ I can not say. I only know I have forbidden him this 
place,^^ he replied, in a hard, wrung voice. “ Harrie, 
Harrie, my little wife! You are very merciless! You are 
torturing me, and 1 — I would die to save you an instant^s 
pain!’^ 

At that eloquent cry she slipped out of his arms and fell 
on her knees before him, her clasped hands hiding her face. 

“ May God grant me a short lifo!’^ was her frenzied cry, 
“ for I never can tell you — never, Everard, not on my dy- 
ing bed — the secret I have sworn to keep!’^ 

“ Sworn to keep!’^ It flashed upon him like a revela- 
tion. “ Sworn to whom? to your father, Harrie?’^ 

“ Do not ask me! I can tell you nothing — I dare not! 
I am bound by an awful vow! And, oh, I think I am the 
most wretched creature in the wide world !^’ 

He raised her up; he kissed the white, despairing face 
again and again — a rain of rapturous kisses. A ton weight 
seemed suddenly lifted off his heart. 

I see it all,^^ he cried — “ 1 see it all now! Fool that I 
was not to understand sooner. There was some mystery, 
some guilt, perhaps, in Captain Hunsden’s life, and he 
revealed it to you on his death-bed, and made you swear to 
keep his secret. Am I not right?'' 

She did not look up. He could feel her shivering from 
head to foot. 

“ Yes, Everard." 

“ And this man — this American — has in some way found 
it out, and wishes to trade upon it, to extort money from 
you? I have often heard of such things. Ain I right 
again?" 

“ Yes, Everard," very faint and sad. 

“ Then, my own dearest, leave me to deal with him; see 
him and fear him no more. I will seek him out. I will 


154 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


not ask to know it. 1 wilt pay him his price and send 
him about his business.” 

He rose impetuously as he spoke, eager to rid himself of 
his incubus on the spot. But Harriet clung to him with 
a strange, white face. 

“No, no, -no!” she cried. “ It would not do. You 
could not satisfy him. You don’t know — ” She stopped 
distractedly. “ Oh, Everard, I can’t explain. You are 
all kindness, all generosity, all goodness; but I must set- 
tle with this man myself. Don’t go near him — don’t ask 
to see him. It could do no good.” 

He withdrew himself from her, freezing lo marble at 
once. 

“lam not right, then, after all. The secret is yours, 
not your father’s?” 

“ Do not ask me! If the sin is not mine, the atonement 
— the bitter atonement — is, at least. Everard, look at me 
— see! I love you with all my heart. I would not tell 
you a lie. I never committed a deed, I never indulged a 
thought of my own, you are not free to know. I never 
saw this man until that day in the library. Oh, believe 
this and trust me, and don’t ask me to break my oath!” 

“ I will not!” He bent over her with unutterable love, 
and kissed the beautiful, pleading face. “ I believe 5 ^ou; 
I trust you. I ask no more. Get rid of this man; and be 
happy once again. We will not even talk of it longer; and 
— will you come with me to my mother’s, Harrie? I dine 
there, you know, to-day. ” 

“My head aches. Not to-day, I think. What time 
will you return?” 


“ Before ten.” He pulled out his watch. “ And, as I 
have a little magisterial business to transact down in the 
village, it is time I was off. Adieu, my own love! Forget 
the harsh words, and be my own happy, radiant, beautiful 
bride once more. ” 

She lifted her face and smiled — a smile as wan and fleet- 
ing as moonlight on snow. 

Sir Everard hastened to his room to dress, striving with 
all his might to drive every suspicion out of his mind. 

He must trust and hope, for his own sake as well as for 
hers, for 


“ To be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness on the brain/’ 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 155 

And she — she flung herself on the sofa, face downward, 
and lay there as if she never cared to rise again. 

“ Papa, papa!” she wailed, “ what have you done — 
what have you done?” 

All that day Lady Kingsland kept her room. Her maid 
brought her what she wanted. Sir Everard returned at 
the appointed hour, looking gloomy and downcast. 

His evening at his mother’s had not been a pleasant one 
— that was evident. Perhaps some vague hint of the dark- 
ening mystery had already reached The Grange. 

“ My mother feels rather hurt, Harrie,” he said, some- 
what coldly, “ that you did not accompany me. She is 
unable to call on you, owing to a severe cold. Mildred is 
absorbed in waiting upon her, and desires to see you ex- 
ceedingly. I promised them we would both dine there to- 
morrow and spend the evening. ” 

His tone admitted of no refusal. But Harrie was too 
spiritless and worn to offer any. 

“ As you please, Everard” she said, wearily. “ It is all 
the same to me. ” 

She descended to breakfast nexi morning carefully dressed 
to meet the fastidious eye of her husband. But she eat 
nothing. A gloomy presentiment of impending evil 
weighed down her heart like lead. Her husband made lit- 
tle effort to rouse her — the contagious gloom affected him, 
too. 

“ It is the weather, I dare say,” he remarked, looking 
out at the bleak, wintery day, the leaden sky, the wailing 
wind. “ This February gloom is enough to give a man the 
megrims. I must face it, too, for to-day I ‘ meet the cap- 
tains at the citadel ’ — that is to say, I promised to ride 
over to Major Warden’s about noon. You will be ready, 
Harrie, when 1 return to accompany me to The Grange?” 

She promised, and he departed; and then, with a slow 
and w^eary step. Lady Kingsland ascended to her own 
apartment. 

While she stood there, gazing blankly out at the gray 
desolation of the February morning, there was a soft tap 
at the door. * 

“ Come in!” she said, thinking it her maid; and the door 
opened, and Sybilla Sil ver, shod with the shoes of silence, 
entered. 

Lady Kingsland faced round and looked at her. How 


156 


THE baronet’s BRIBE. 


luiiidsoine she was! That was her first involuntary thought. 
Her sweeping black robes fell around her tall, regal figure 
with queenly grace, the black eyes sparkled with living 
light, a more vivid scarlet than usual lighted up each 
dusky cheek. She looked gloriously beautiful standing 
there. Mr. Parmalee would surely have been dazzled had 
he seen her. 

There was a moment’s pause. The two women eyed 
each other, as accomplished swordsmen may on the eve of 
a duel. Very pale, very proud, looked my lady. She dis- 
liked and distrusted this brilliant, black-eyed Miss Silver, 
and Miss Silver knew it well. 

“You wish to speak with me, Miss Silver?” my lady 
said, in her most superb manner. 

“Yes, my lady — most particularly, and quite alone. 1 
beg your pardon, but your maid is not within hearing, I 
trust?” 

“We are quite alone,” very coldly. “ Speak out; no 
one can overhear you.” 

“ I do not care for myself,” Sybilla said, her glittering 
black eyes meeting the proud gray ones. “ It is for your 
sake, my lady.” 

“ For my sake!” in haughty amaze. “You can have 
nothing to say to me. Miss Silver, the whole world may not 
overhear. If you intend to be impertinent, I shall order 
you out of the room. ” 

“ One moment, my lady; you go to fast. The whole 
world may not overhear the message Mr. Parmalee sends 
you by me.” 

“ Ah!”— my lady recoiled as though an adder had stung 
her — “ always that man! Speak out, then ” — turning 
swiftly upon her husband’s protegee— “ what is the mes- 
sage this man sends me by you?” 

“ That if you do not meet him within two days, he will 
sell your secret to the highest bidder.” 

Sybilla delivered, word for word, the words of the Amer- 
ican — cruelly, slowly, significantly — looking her still 
straight in the eyes. Those clear gray eyes flashed with a 
fierce, defiant light. 

“ You know all?” she cried. 

Sybilla Silver bowed her head. 

“ 1 know all,” she answered. 

Dead silence fell. White as a dead woman. Lady K ings- 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 


167 


land stood, her eyes ablaze with fierce, consunimg fire. 
Sybilla made a step forward, sunk down before her, and 
lifted her hand to her lips. 

“ He told me all, my dear lady; but your secret is safe 
with me. Sybilla will be your true and faithful, though 
humble, friend, if you will let her. Hear Lady Kingsland, 
don^t look at me with that stony, angry face. 1 have no 
wish but to serve you.^*’ 

The gracious speech met with but an ungracious return. 
My lady snatched her hand away, as though from a snake, 
and gazed at her with flashing eyes of scorn and distrust. 

“ What are you to this man. Miss Silver?’^ she asked. 
“ Why should he tell you?’^ 

“lam his plighted wife,^^ replied Sybilla, trying to call 
up a conscious blush. 

“ Ah, I see!^’ my lady said, scornfully. “ Permit me 
to congratulate you on the excellent execution your black 
eyes have wrought. You are a very clever girl. Miss Sil- 
ver, and I think I understand you thoroughly. I am only 
surprised you did not carry your discovery straight to Sir 
Everard Kingsland.^’ 

“ Your ladyship is most unjust,^^ Sybilla said, turning 
away, “ unkind and cruel. I have delivered my message, 
and I will go/^ 

“ Wait one moment,^' my lady said, in her clear sweet 
voice, her proud face gleaming with a cynical smile. “ To- 
morrow evening it will be impossible for me to see Mr. 
Parmalee — there is to be a dinner-party at the house — 
during the day still more impossible. Since he commands 
me to see him, I will do so to-night, and throw over my 
other engagements. At eight this evening I will be in the 
Beech Walk, and alone. Let Mr. Parmalee come to me 
there. 

A gleam of diabolical triumph lighted up the great black 
e}es of Sybilla, but the profound bow. she made concealed 
it. 

“ 1 will tell him, my lady,^^ she said, “ and he will be 
there without fail.^^ 

She quitted the room, closed the door, and looked back 
at it as Satan may have looked back at Eden after van- 
quishing Eve. 

“My triumph begins,” she said to herself. “ I have 


158 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


caught you nicely this time, my lady. You and Mr. Par- 
malee will not be alone in the Beech Walk to-night.'’^ 

Left to herself, Harriet stood for a moment motionless. 
With all her pride and her strength gone, she sunk down 
into her seat, her hands clasped over her heart. 

“ She too,P she murmured, “ my arch-enemy! Oh, my 
God, help me to bear it— help me to keep the horrible 
truth from the husband 1 love! She will not tell him. 
She knows he would never endure her from the hour she 
would make the revelation; and that thought alone re- 
strains her. It will kill me — this agonizing fear and hor- 
ror! And better so — better to die now, while he loves me, 
than live to be hated and loathed when he discovers the 
truth !’^ 

Sir Everard Kingsland, riding home in the yellow, win- 
tery sunset, found my lady lying on a lounge in her boudoir, 
her maid beside her, bathing her forehead with eau-de- 
Oologne. His brow contracted with a little spasm of dis- 
appointment. 

“ Headache again, Harrie?’^ he said. “ You are grow- 
ing a complete martyr to that feminine malady of late. I 
had hoped to find you dressed and ready to accompany me 
to The Grange. 

“ I am sorry, Everard, but this evening it is impossible. 
Make my excuses to her ladyship, and tell her 1 hope to 
see her soon. 

She did not look up as she said it, and her husband, 
stooping, imprin,ted a kiss on the colorless cheek. 

“My poor, pale girl! 1 will send Edwards with an 
apology to The Grange, and remain at home with you.^’ 

“No!’^ Harriet cried, hastily; “not on any account. 
You must not disappoint your mother, Everard; you must 
go. There, good-bye! It is time you were dressing. DonT 
mind me; I will be better when you return.'’^ 

But he lingered still, with a strangely yearning, troubled 
face. 

“ I feel as though 1 ought not to leave you to-night,’’ he 
said. “ It seems heartless, and you ill. I had better send 
Edwards and the apology.” 

“ You foolish boy!” She looked up at him and smiled, 
with eyes full of tears. “ I will be better alone and quiet. 
Sleep and solitude will quite restore me. Go! go! You 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


159 


will be late as it is,, and my lady dislikes being kept wait- 
ing.” 

He kissed her and went, casting one long, lingering back- 
ward look at the wife he loved. And with a pang bitterer 
than death came the remembrance afterward of how she 
had urged him to leave her that night. 

Thus they parted — to look into each bther^s eyes no more 
in love and trust for a dark and tragic time. 

Sybilla Silver, standing at the house door, was gazing 
out at the yellow February sun sinking pale and watery 
into the livid horizon line, as the baronet ran down-stairs, 
drawing on his gloves. He paused, with his usual court- 
esy, to speak to his dependent as he went by. 

“ The sky yonder looks ominous,^^ he said, “ and this 
wailing, icy blast is the very desolation of desolation, 
'i'here is a storm brewing. 

Miss Silver^s black eyes gleamed, and her white teeth 
showed in a sinister smile. 

“ A storm?^^ she repeated. “ Yes, I think there is, and 
you will be caught in it, *Sir Everard, if you stay late. 
The storm will break very soonT^ 


CHAPTER XXIL 

AT NIGHT IN THE BEECH WALK. 

The instant Sir Everard was out of sight Sybilla ran up 
to her chamber, and presently reappeared, dressed for a 
walk. 

Even the long, shrouding mantle she wore could not 
disguise the exquisite symmetry of her graceful form, and 
the thick brown veil could not dim the luster of her flash" 
ing Assyrian eyes. She smiled back, before flitting away, 
at the dark, bright, sparkling face her mirror showed her. 

“ You are a very pretty person, my dear Miss Silver,^^ 
she said— “ prettier even than my lady herself, though 1 
say it. Worlds have been lost for less handsome faces than 
this in the glorious days gone by, and Mr. Parmalee will 
have every reason to be proud of his wife — when he gets 
her. 

She ran lightly down-stairs, a sarcastic smile still on her 
lijjs. In the lower hall stood Mr. Edwards, the valet, dis- 
consolately gazing at the threatening prospect. He turned 


160 


.THE BAUOKET’S BRIDE. 


around, and his dull eyes lighted up at sight of this dark- 
ling vision of beauty — for Mr. Parmalee was by no means 
the only gentleman with the good taste to admire hand- 
some Sybilla. 

“Going hout, Miss Silver!"' Mr. Edwards asked, in 
languid surprise. “ Huncommon urgent your business 
must be to take you from "ome such a hevening as this. 
"Ow's my, lady?" 

“ My lady is not at all well, Mr. Edwards," answered 
Sybilla. “ Sir Everard was obliged to go alone to his 
mother's, my lady’s headache is so, intense. Claudine is 
with her, I believe. We are going to have a storm, are we 
not? I shall be obliged to hurry back." 

She flitted away as she spoke, drawing down her veil, 
and disappearing while yet Mr. Edwards \yas trying to 
make a languid profler of his services as escort. He 
lounged easily up against the window, gazing with calm 
admiration after her. 

“ An huncommon 'andsome and lady-looking young 
pusson that," reflected Sir Everard's gentleman. “I 
shouldn't mind basking her to be my missus one of these 
days. That face of hers and them dashing \^ays would 
take helegantly behind the bar of a public. " 

Unconscious of the admiration she was eliciting in the 
bosom of Mr. Edwards,' Sybilla sped on her way down the 
village to the Blue Bell. Just before she reached the inn 
she encountered Mr. Parmalee himself, taking a constitu- 
tional, a cigar in his mouth, and his hands deep in his 
trousers pockets. He met and greeted his fair betrothed 
with natural j)hlegm. 

“ How do, Sybilla?" nodding and smoking steadily on. 
“ 1 kind of thought you'd be after me, and so 1 stepped 
out. You've been and delivered that there little message 
of mine, I suppose?" 

^ “ Yes," said Sybilla; “ and she will mOet you to-night 

in the Beech Walk, and hear what you have got to say." 

“The deuce she will!" said the artist; “and have her 
fire-eating husband catch us and set the flunkies at me. 
Not if 1 know myself. If my Jady wants to hear what 
I've got to say, let my lady come to me." 

“ She never will," responded Sybilla. “ You don't 
know her. Don't be an idiot, George — do as she requests. 
Meet her to-night in the Beech Walk." 


THE BAROHET^S BRIBE. 161 

“ Alul have the baronet come upon us like a roaring lion 
in the middle of our confab! Look here, Sybilla, I ain’t a 
cowardly feller, you know, in the main; but, by George! 
it ain’t pleasant to be horsewhipped by an outrageous 
young baronet or kicked from the gates by his under- 
strappers.” 

“ There is no danger. Sir Everard is not at home, and 
will not be before ten o’clock at least. He is gone to dine 
at The Grange with his mother; and my lady was to have 
gone too, but your message frightened her, and she told 
him little white lies, and insisted on his going by himself. 
And, you silly old stupid, if you had two ideas in your 
head, you would see that this opportunity of braving his 
express command, and entering the lion’s den to meet his 
wife by night and by stealth, is the most glorious oppor- 
tunity of revenge you could have. Sir Everard is nearly 
mad with jealousy and suspicion already. What will he be 
when he finds his wife of a month has lied to him to meet 
you alone and in secret at the Beech Walk? 1 tell you, 
Mr. Parmalee, you will be gloriously revenged!” 

“By thunder!” cried the artist, “1 never thought of 
that. I’ll do it, Sybilla — I’ll do it, so help me! Tell my 
lady I’ll be there right on the minute; and do you take 
care that confounded conceited baronet finds it out. I 
said I’d pay him off for every blow, and I’ll do it, by the 
Eternal!” 

“ And strike through her!” hissed Sybilla, with glitter- 
ing black eyes, “ and every blow will go straight through 
the core of his proud heart. We’ll torture him, George 
Parmalee, as man never was tortured before.” 

Mr. Parmalee looked at her, rather taken aback, as he 
always was when she burst out with the deadly inward fire 
that filled her. 

“What a little devil you are,. Sybilla!” he said, with 
lover-like candor. “I’ve heard tell that you wimmin 
knock us men into a cocked hat in the way of hating, and 
I now begin to think it is true. What has this ’ere bar- 
onet done to you, I should admire to know? You don’t 
liate him like the old sarpent for nothing.” 

“ What has he done to me?” repeated Sybilla, with a 
strange, slow smile. “ That is easily told. lie gave me 
a home when I was homeless; he was my friend when I 
was friendless. I have broken his bread and drunk of his 
6 


162 THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

cup, and slept under his roof, and — I hate him, I hate 
him, I hate him!” 

Her hands and teeth clinched in a deadly spasm of sup- 
pressed fury; her two eyes blazed like lurid flames. Mr. 
Parmalee took out his cigar and stared at her in horror. 

“ 1 tell you what it is. Miss Silver,” he said, after an 
aghast pause, “ I don’t like this sort of thing — I don’t, by 
George! I ain’t surprised at a person hating a person, be- 
cause 1 hate him myself; but for a young woman that is 
going to be my wife to cut up like this here, and swear 
everlasting vengeance — well, I don’t like it. You see, 
wild cats ain’t the most comfortable sort of pets a man 
can have in his house, and how do I know but it may be 
my turn next?” 

Miss Silver laughed, and her face cleared instantly. She 
laid her hand on his arm and looked up in his face with 
shining, bewitching eyes. 

“ You precious old stupid! As if I could hate you, if I 
tried. No, no, George; you may trust Sybilla. The wild 
cat will sheathe her claws in triple folds of velvet for you. ” 

“Humph!” said Mr. Parmalee; “but the claws will 
still be there. However, 1 ain’t a-going to .quarrel with 
you about it. I like a spunky woman, and I hate him. 
Pll meet my lady to-night, and you see that my lady’s 
husband finds it out. ” , ‘ 

“ Until then,” responded Sybilla, folding her mantle 
closer about her, “ remember the hour — eight sharp — and 
don’t keep her waiting. Before he sleeps to-night the 
proudest baronet in the realm shall know why his wife de- 
liberately deceived him to meet a strange man by night and 
by stealth in the park, where her husband had ordered 
him never to set foot again.” 

She fluttered away in the chill spring twilight with the 
last words, leaving her fiance gazing after her with an ex- 
pression that was not altogether unmixed admiration. 

“ I’ll be darned if I ever met the like of you. Miss Sil- 
ver, in all my travels. You might be own sister to Luci- 
fer himself for wickedness and revengefulness. I’ll find 
out what’s at the bottom of all this cantankerous spite be- 
fore I make you Mrs. G. W. Parmalee, or I’ll know the 
reason why. It’s all very fine to have a handsome wife, 
with big black eyes and a spunky spirit, but a fellow 


THR baronet's bride. 163 

doesn't want a wife that Vili bury the carving-knife in 
him the first time he contradicts her." 

Sybilla was a good walker; the last yellow line of the 
watery February sunset had hardly faded as she tripped up 
the long drive under the gaunt, tossing trees. Mr. Ed- 
wards still lounged in elegant leisure in the halb convers- 
ing with a gigantic young footman, and his fishy eyes 
kindled for the second time as Sybilla appeared, flushed 
and bright and sparkling, after her windy, twilight walk. 

“ I have outstripped the storm after all, you see," she 
remarked, with a gay little laugh, as she went by. “I 
don’t believe we shall have it before midnight. Oh, Olau- 
dine! is my lady in her room? 1 have been on an ei rand 
for her down the village." 

She had enoountered the jaunty little French girl on' the 
upper landing, and paused to put the question. 

“Yes," Olaudine said. “ Madame' s headache was 

easier. She is reading in her dressing-room. " 

Sybilla tapped at the dressing-room door, then turned 
the handle and entered. It was an exqliisite little lijou 
of a chamber, with fluted walls of rose silk, and delicious 
plump beauties with bare shoulders and melting eyes, by 
Greuze. A wood fire flickered on the marble hearth, and 
was flashed back from lofty mirrors as tall as the room. 

This flickering blaze, and the ghostly twilight creeping 
grayly in between the rosy silken curtains, left the room 
in a fantastic mixture of light and shadow. 

Lying back in an arm-chair, her book fallen aimlessly 
on her lap, her dark, deep eyes looking straight before her 
into the evening gloaming, my lady sat alone. 

The melancholy wash of the waves on the shore, the 
mournful sighing of the evening wind among the groan- 
ing trees, the monotonous ticking of a dainty buhl clock, 
and the light fall of the cinders sounded abnormally loud 
in the dead silence of the apartment. 

Lady Kingsland turned round at the opening of the 
door, and her face hardened into that fixedly cold, proud 
look it always wore at sight of her husbahd's brilliant 
protegee. 

In her trailing black robes Miss Silver stood before her 
in the mysterious half-light like some tall, dark ghost. 

“I have been to the village, my lady," Sybilla said. 


164 ‘ THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

“ I have seen Mr. Parmalee.v He will be in the Beech 
Walk precisely at eight. 

My lady bent her head in cold acknowledgment. Sybilla 
paused an instant, determined to make her speak. 

“ Can I be of service to you in any way in this matter, 
my lady?” she asked. 

“ You?” in proud surprise, “ Certainly not. I wish 
to be alone. Miss Silver. Be good enough to go.” 

Sybilla’s little brown fist clinched itself furiously, once 
on the landing outside. 

“ 1 can’t humble herJ” she thought. “ I can’t make 
her fear me. 1 can’t triumph over her, do what I will. 
1 have her secret and 1 hold her in my power, but she is 
prouder than Lucifer himself, and she would let me stand 
forth and tell all, and if one pleading word would stop me, 
she would not say it. ‘ The brave may die, but can not 
yield!’ She should have been a man.” 

She went to the window and drew out her watch; it 
wanted a quarter of eight. The pretty little enameled 
trinket had been a recent gift of the princely young bar- 
onet — her initials glittered on the case — but, preparing to 
stab him to the heart, she looked at it without one com- 
punctious twinge. 

“ In fifteen minutes my lady goes; in fifteen more I 
shall follow her, and , riot alone. 1 am afraid Sir Ever- 
ard’s slumbers will be rather disturbed to-night.” 

The last yellow gleam of the dying day was gone, and a 
sickly, pallid moon glimmered dully among drifts of scud- 
ding black clouds. An icy blast wailed up from the sea, 
and the rocking trees were like dryad specters in writh- 
ing agony. The distant Beech Walk looked black and 
grim and ghostly in the weird light. 

A great clock high up in a windy turret struck eight. 
A moment after the door of my lady’s dressing-room 
opened. A dark, shrouded figure emerged, flitted swiftly 
down the long gallery, down the sweeping stair-way, and 
vanished. 

Sybilla Silver stood like an effigy in stone, listening with 
a smile on her lips — and her smile was the smile of a 
demon. 

Ten minutes later Edwards, yawning forlornly, still in 
the entrance hall, beheld Miss Silver coming toward him 
with an anxious face, a large shawl thrown over her head. 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


165 


“ Going out again?" the valet exclaimed. “ And such 
a nasty night, too. You are fond of walking, Miss S., 
and no mistake." 

“I'm not going for a walk," said Sybilla. “ 1 am go- 
ing to look for a locket 1 lost this afternoon. I was out in 
the park, in the direction of the Beech Walk, and there I 
must have dropped it." 

“Better wait until to-morrow," suggested Edwards. 
“ The wind's 'owling through the trees, and it's colder 
than the Harctic regions. Better ivait. " 

“ 1 can not. The locket was a present, and 1 value it 
exceedingly. I thought of asking you to accompany me, 
Mr. Edwards, but as it is so cold perhaps you had better 
not." 

“ Oh, I'll go with pleasure!" said Mr. Edwards. “ If 
you can stand the cold, I can, I dessay. Wait till 1 get 
my 'at and hovercoat — 1 won't be a minute." 

Miss Silver waited. Mr. Edwards reappeared in a 
twinkling. 

“ 'Adn't I better fetch a lantern?" he suggested. “ It 
will be himpossible to see it, heven if it should be there." 

“No," said Sybilla. “ The moon is shining, and the 
locket will glimmer on the snow. Come!" 

She took his arm, and they started at a brisk pace for 
the Beech AValk. The ground, baked hard as iron, rang 
under their tread, and whether it was the bitter blast or 
not, Mr. Edwards could not tell, but his companion's face 
was flushed with a more brilliant glow, in the ghostly 
moonlight, than he had ever before seen there. 

They reached the long grove of magnificent copper- 
beeches, and .just without its entrance Miss Silver began 
searching foi her lost locket. The white snow was baked 
and glittering, but no shining wheel of gold sparkled on 
its radiant surface. 

“It is not here," said Sybilla. “ Let us go further 
down—" 

She paused abruptly at a sudden gesture of her com- 
panion. 

“ Hush!" he said. “ There is some one talking in the 
Beech Walk." 

Both paused and stood stock still. Borne unmistakably 
on the night wind, voices came to them — the soft voice of 
a woman, the deeper tones of a man. 


166 


THE EAROHET^S BRIDE. 


“ One of the maids, I dare say,^^ Sybilla said, careless- 
ly, “ holding tryst with her lover.” 

“ No,” said the valet; “ not one of the maids would set 
foot hinside this walk hafter nightfall for a kingdom! 
They say it^s ^aimted. Come forward a little, and let^s 
see if we canT ’ave a look at the talkers. Whoever it is, 
he’s hup to no good, ITl be bound!” 

Very softly, stealing on tiptoe, the twain approached the 
entrance of the avenue. The watery moonlight, breaking 
through a rift in the clouds, shone out for an instant 
above the trees, and showed them ,a man and a woman, 
standing face to face, earnestly talking. Thp man stood 
leaning against a tree, his hat pulled over his face; the 
woman stood before him, the dim light full upon her. 
Mr. Edwards barely repressed a cry of consternation. 

“ Good Lord!” he gasped; ” it’^ my lady!” 

“ Hush!” cried Sybilla, in a fierce whisper. “ Who is 
the man?” 

As if some inward prescience told him they were there, 
the man lifted his hat at that very instant, and plainly 
showed his face. 

“ The Hamerican, by Jove!” again gasped the horrified 
valet, and then stood staring speechlessly. 

Sybilla Silver’s e.yes blazed like coals of fire, and the 
demoniac smile, that-piade her brilliant beauty hideous, 
gleamed on her lips. 

She grasped the man’s arm with slender fingers of iron, 
and stood gloating over the scene. 

Not one word could they hear-^the distance was too 
great — but they could see my lady’s passionate gestures; 
they could see the white hands clasp and cover her face; 
they could see her wildly excited, even in that dim light. 
And once they saw her take from her pocket her purse, 
and pour a handful of shining sovereigns into Mr. Parma- 
lee’s extended hand. 

There was a speechless gasp from Mr. Edwards at this 
awful revelation — he was too far gone for words. 

They stood there while the moments went, unheeding 
the icy wind that arose and blew more fiercely each instant 
—unheeding the few fluttering snow-flakes beginning to 
fall. 

Nearly an hour they had stood, petrified gazers, when 
they were aroused as by a thunder-clap. A horse came 


THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 167 

galloping furiously up the avenue, as only one rider ever 
galloped there. • Sybil la Silver just repressed a scream of 
exultation — no more. v 

“ It is Sir Everard Kingsland!^^ she cried, in a whisper 
of fierce delight, “ in time to catch his sick wife in the 
Beech Walk with the man he hates 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

MY lady’s secret. 

It was quite dark before prudent Mr. Parmalee, not- 
withstanding Sybilla’s assurance that the baronet was away 
from home, ventured within the great entrance gates of 
the park. He was not, as he said himself, a coward alto- 
gether; but he had a lively recollection of the pummeling 
he had already received, and a wholesome dread of the 
scientific hitting of this strong-fisted young aristocrat. 
When he did venture, his coat- collar was so pulled up 
that in the sickly moon-rays recognition, even had they 
met, was next to impossible. 

Mr. Parmalee, smoking a cigar, made his way to the 
Beech Walk, and leaning against a giant tree, stared at 
the watery moon, and waited. The loud-voiced turret 
clock struck eight a moment after he had taken his posi- 
tion. 

“ Time is up,” thought the photographer. “ My lady 
ought to be here now. I’ll give her another quarter. If 
she isn’t with me in that time, then good-bye to Lady 
Kingsland and my keeping her secret.” 

Ten minutes passed. As he replaced his watch a light 
step sounded on the frozen snow, a shadow darkened the 
entrance, and Lady Kingsland’s pale, proud face looked 
fixedly at him in the moonlight. There was a queenliness 
in her manner that impressed even the unimpressionable 
American. He took off his hat and threw away his half- 
smoked cigar. 

“ My Lady Kingsland!” 

She bowed haughtily, hovering aloof. 

“ You wished to see me, Mr. Parmalee — that is your 
name, I believe. What is it you have to say to me?” 

Her proud tone restored all the artist’s constitutional 
phlegm. He put on his hat, and returned her haughty 
gaze coolly. ' 


168 


THE EAKONET’S BRIDE. 


“ 1 don’t think you really need to ask that question, my 
lady. You know as well as 1 do, or I’m mistaken.” 

“ Who are you?” she demanded, impatiently, impetu- 
ously. “ How do you come to know my secret? How do 
you come to be possessed of that picture?” 

“ 1 told you before. She gave it to me herself.” 

My lady’s great gray eyes dilated. She came a step 
nearer. 

“ For God’s sake, tell me the truth! Don’t deceive 
me! Do you really mean it? Have you really seen my — ” 

She stopped, shuddering in some horrible inward repul- 
sion from head to foot. 

“ I really have,” rejoined Mr. Parmalee. “ I know the 
— the party in question like a book. She told me her 
story; she gave me her picture herself, of her own free 
will, and she told me where to find you. She is in Lon- 
don now, all safe, and waiting — a little out of patience, 
though, by this time, 1 dare say.” 

“Waiting!” Lady Kingsland gasped the word in white 
terror. “ Waiting for what?” 

“ To see you, my lady.” 

There was a blank pause. My lady covered her face 
with both hands, and again that convulsive shudder shook 
her from head to foot. 

“ She is very penitent, my lady,” Mr. Parmalee said, in 
a softer tone. “She is. very poor, and ill and heart- 
broken. Even you, my' lady, might pity and forgive her 
if you saw her now. ” 

She made a wild, frantic gesture for him to stop. In 
the moonlight her face was utterly ghastly. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, hush! 1 don’t want to hear. Tell 
me how you met her first. I never heard your name un- 
til that day in the library.” 

“ No more you didn’t,” said the artist. “ You see, my 
lady, it was pure chance- work from first to last. I was 
coming over here on a little speculation of my own in the 
photographic line, and, being low in pocket and pretty 
well used to rough it, 1 was coming in the steerage. There 
was a pretty hard crowd of us — Dutch and Irish and all 
sorts mixed up there — an’ among ’em one that looked as 
much out of her element as a fish out of water. Any one 
could tell with half an. eye she’d been a lady, in spite of 
her shabby duds and starved, haggard face. She was 


THE BAKOKET'S BRIDE. 169 

alone. Not a soul knew her, not a soul cared for her, and 
half-way across she fell sick and had like to died. 

Mr. Parmalee paused. My lady stood before him, 
ashen white to the lips, listening with wild, wide eyes. 

“ Go on,^^ she said, almost in a whisper. 

“Well, my lady,^’ Mr. Parmalee resumed, modestly, 
“ l^m a pretty rough sort of a fellow, as you may see, and 
I hain^t never experienced religion or that, and don^t lay 
claim to no sort of goodness; but for all that Pve an old 
mother over to home, and for her sake 1 couldn’t stand by 
and see a poor, sufferin’ feller-critter of the female pec- 
suasion and not lend a helping hand. I missed that there 
sick party by night and by day, and if it hadn’t been for 
that nussm’ and the little things 1 bought her to eat, she’d 
have been under the Altantic now, though I do say it. 
They used to laugh at me on board, but I stuck to her, 
sir, until she got well.” 

My lady held out her hand — her slender white hand 
aglitter wkh rich rings. 

“ You are a better man than 1 took you for,” she said, 
softly. “ I thank you with all my heart.” 

Mr. Parmalee took the dainty hand, rather confusedly, 
in his finger-tips, held it a second, and dropped it. 

“ It was one night, when -she thought herself dying, 
that she told me her story — told me everything, my lady 
— who she had been, who she was, and what she was com- 
ing across for. My lady, nobody could be sorrier than she 
was then. I pitied her, by George, more than 1 ever pitied 
any one before in my life. She had been unhappy and re- 
morseful for a long time, but she was in despair. It was 
too late for repentance, she thought. There was nothing 
for it but to go on to the dreadful end. Sometimes, when 
she was almost mad, she— well, she took to drink, you 
know, and he wasn’t in any way a good or kind protector 
to her— Thorndyke wasn’t.” 

My lady flung up both arms with a shrill, irrepressible 
scream. 

“ Not that name,” she cried— “ not that accursed name, 
if you would not drive me mad!” 

”I beg your pardon!” said Mr. Parmalee; “ I won’t. 
Well, she heard of your father’s deatli— Ae told her, you 
see — and that completed her despair. She took to drink 
worse and worse; she got out of all bounds — sort of frah- 


170 


THE BARONET’a BRIDE. 


tie, you see. Twice she tried to kill herself — once by 
poison, once by drowning; and both times he— you know 
who I mean— caught her and stopped her. He hadn’t 
even mercy enough on her, she says, to let her die!” 

Grod’s sake, don’t tell me of those horrors!” my 
lady cried, in a voice of agony. “ I feel as though I were 
going mad.” ^ 

“ It is hard,” said the artist, compassionately; “ but I 
can t help it— it’s true, all the same. She heard of your 
marriap to Sir Everard Kingsland next. It was the last 
thing he ever taunted her with; for, crazed with his leers 
and insults, she fled from him that night, sold all she pos- 
England ’’ clothes on her back, and took passage for 

To see me?” asked Harriet, hoarsely. 

^ ‘To see you, my lady, but all unknown. She had no 
wish to ^orce herself upon you; she only felt that she was 
(lying, and that jf she could look on your face once before 
she went out of life, and see you well, and beautiful, and 
beloved, and happy, she pould lie down in the dust at your 
gates and die content. ” - 

There was a rude pathos in the speaker’s voice that 
showed even he was touched. My lady hid her face once 
mop, and the tears fell like.rain. 

01- two that night/’ 
continued Mr. Parmalee^“ that night which she thought 

wtfV, nf ^“5 begged me to find you and give it to you, 
wito her picture. 1 have it yet; here they are, both.” 

his pocket the picture and a note, and 
gave them into my lady s hand. 

She didn’t die,” he resumed; “ she got better and T 

u'““t “ o’ ^®'’ *^^®''®’ oame down here 

pretense of being better 
than I am, 1 took this matter up iti the way of specula- 
tion, in the view to make money out of it, and nothing 
else. 1 said to myself: ‘ Here’s this young lady, the bride 
of a rich baronet; it ain’l, likely she’s beenind told him Ml 
this, and it am t likely her pa has died and left her ignorant 
of it. Now, what s to hinder my making a few^honest 
pounds out of It, at the same time I do a good turn foi- 
this poor, suflerm , sinful critter here?’ 'Aat’s what 1 
said, my lady, and that’s what I am here for. I’m a vLr 
man, and I live by my wits, and a stroke of business^is a 


THE BAllONET^S BRIDE. 


171 


stroke of business, no matter how far it^s out of the ordi- 
nary run. Your' husband don^t know this here story; you 
don’t want him to know it, and you come down hand- 
somely and I’ll keep your secret.” 

“ You have rather spoiled your marketable commodity, 
then, Mr. Parmalee. It would have paid you better not 
to have shared your secret with Sybilla Silver.” 

“ She’s told you, has she?” said the artist, father sur- 
prised. “Now that’s what I call mean. You don’t think 
she’ll peach to Sir Everard, do you?” 

“ I think it extremely likely that she will. She hates 
me, Mr. Parmalee, and Miss Silver would do a good deal 
for a person she hates. You should have waited until she 
became Mrs. Parmalee before making her the repository 
of your valuable secrets.” 

“ It’s no good talking about it now, however,” said Mr. 
Parmalee, rather doggedly. “I’ve told her, and it can’t 
be helped. And now, my lady, I don’t want to be caught 
here, and it’s getting late, and what are you going to give 
a fellow for all his trouble?” 

“ What will hardly repay you, I fear,” said my lady, 
with cool contempt; “ for I have very little of my own, as 
yon doubtless have informed yourself ere this. What I 
have you have earned and shall receive. At the most it 
will not exceed three hundred pounds. Of my husband’s 
money not one farthing shall any. one ever receive from 
me for keeping a secret of mine.” 

Mr. Parmalee’s face fell visibly. Three hundred pounds 
was evidently not one fourth of what he had expected to 
receive for his valuable secret. 

“I must have more than that,” he said, resolutely. 
“ Three hundred pounds is nothing to a lady like you. 
You have diamonds and jewels worth five times the 
amount. I must have more than three hundred pounds.” 

“ It is all I have— all I can give you, and to give you 
that I must sell the trinkets my dear dead father gave me. 
But it is for his sake I do it— to preserve his secret. My 
jewels, my diamonds, my husband’s gifts I will not touch, 
nor one farthing of his money will you ever receive. You 
entirely mistake me, Mr. Parmalee. My secret I will 
keep from him while I can; I swore a solemn oath by my 
father’s death-bed to do so. But to pay you with his 


172 


THE BAKOHET’S BRIDE. 


money—to bribe you to deceive him with his gold — I never 
will. I would die first. ’’ 

She stood before him erects defiant, queenly. 

Mr. Parmalee frowned darkly. 

“ Suppose 1 go to him then, my lady—suppose 1 pour 
this nice little story into his ear — what then?^^ 

“ Then,’^ she exclaimed, in tones of ringing scorn, “ you 
will receive nothing. His servants will thrust you from 
his gates. No, Mr. Parmalee, if money be your object 
you will make a better bargain with me than with him. 

What is mine you shall have — every farthing 1 own, every 
trinket I possess — on condition that you depart and never 
trouble me more. That is all I can do — all I will do. 
Decide which you prefer./^ 

“ There is no choice,^’ replied the American, sullenly; 

“ half a loaf is better than nothing. I’ll take the throe 
hundred pounds; but it’s a poorer spec than I took it for. 

And now, my lady, what do you mean to do about her? 

She wants to see you.” 

“ See me!” An expression of horror, fear, disgust 
swept over my lady’s face. “ Not for ten thousand 
worlds!” 

“ Well, now, 1 call that hard,” said Mr. Parmalee. “ I 
don’t care what she’s done or what she»’s been, it’s hard! 

She’s sorry now, and no„ one can be more than that. I 
take an interest in that unfortunate party, my lady; and 
if you knew how she hankers after a sight of you — how 
poor and ill and heart-broken she is — how she longs to 
hear you say once, ‘ I forgive you,’ before she dies — well, 
you wouldn’t, proud as you are — you wouldn’t be so 
hard.” 

” Stop — stop!” Lady Kingsland exclaimed, in a chok- 
ing voice. 

She turned away, leaning against a tree, her hands 
pressed over her heart, her face more ghastly than the face 
of a dead woman. 

Mr. Parmalee watched her. lie could see the fierce 
struggle that shook her from head to foot. 

“ Don’t be hard on her!” he pleaded. “ She’s very 
humble now, and fallen very low. She won’t live long, ^ 
and you’ll be happier on your own death-bod, my lady, for 
forgiving her, poor soul!” 


THE BAKONET’s BRIDE. 


173 


She put out her hand blindly and took his. Tier toucii 
was icy cold, her fa,ce ghastly. 

“I will see her/^ she said, hoarsely. “ May God for- 
give her and pity me! Fetch her down here, Mr. Parma- 
lee, and I will see her.^'’ 

“ Yes, my lady; but as I’m rather short of funds, per- 
haps — ” 

She drew out her purse and poured its glittering con- 
tents into his palm. 

“It is all I have now; when you return I will have the 
three hundred pounds. You must take her back to New 
York. She and I must never meet again — for iny hus- 
band’s sake.” 

“ I understand, my lady,” the man said, moved by the 
agony of her voice. “ I’ll do what I can. I’ll take her 
back, and I’ll trouble you no mor-e.” 

His last words were drowned in the gallop of Sir Gala- 
had up the avenue. 

“It is my husband!” my lady exclaimed. “1 must 
leave you. When' will you— and she — return?” 

“ In two days we will be here. I’ll give out she’s a sis- 
ter of mine at the inn— no one knows her here — and I’ll 
send you word and' arrange a meeting. Until then, my 
lady, 1 wish you good-bye.” 

Mr. Parmalee drew down his hat and strode uncere- 
moniously away. Weak, trembling, my lady leaped for a 
few moments against a tree, trying to recoveF^ herself, 
then turned slowly and walked back to the house to meet 
her husband. 


CIIAPTEK XXIV. ; 

MISS SILVER BREAKS THE NEWS. 

The Grange, the jointure house of the Dowager Lady 
Kingsland, stood, like all such places, isolated and alone, 
at the furthest, extremity of the village. It was a dreary 
old building enough, weather-beaten and brown, with 
prinily laid-out grounds, and row upon row of stiS poplars 
waving in the wintery wind. A lonely, forlorn old place — 
a vivid contrast to the beauty and brightness of Kingsland 
Court; and from the first day of her entrance. Lady Kings- 
land, senior, hated her daughter-in-law with double hatred 
and rancor. 


174 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


“ For the pauper half- pay officer’s bold-faced Slaughter 
we must drag out our lives in this horrible place!” she 
burst out, bitterly. “ While Harriet Hunsden reigns en 
princesse amid the splendors of our ancestral home, we , 
must vegetate in this rambling, dingy old barn. I’Jl never 
forgive your brother, Mildred — I’ll never forgive him as 
long as I live for marrying that creature!” 

“ Dear mamma,” the gentle voice of Milly pleaded, 

“ you must not blame Everard. He loves her, and she is 
as beautiful as an angel. It would have been all the sarne 
if he had married Lady Louise, you know. We would still 
have had to quit Kingsland Court.” 

“ Kingsland Court would have had an earl’s daughter 
for its mistress in that case. I could have left it without 
repining, then. But to think that this odious, fox-hunt- 
ing, steeple-chase-riding, baggage-cart-following fille du 
regiment should rule there, while we — Oh, it sets me 
wild only to think of it!” 

“ Don’t think of it, then, mamma,” coaxed Mildred. 
“We will make this wilderness ‘ blossom as the rose ’ next 
summer. As for Harrie, you don’t know her yet — you 
will like her better when you do!” 

“ I shall never like her!” Lady Kingsland replied, with 
rancorous bitterness. “ I don’t want to like her! She is 
a proud, imperious upstart, and 1 sincerely hope she may 
make Everard see his headstrong folly in throwing himself 
away before the honey-moon is ended.” 

It was quite useless for Mildred to try to combat her 
mother’s fierce resentment. Day after day she wandered 
through the desolate, draughty rooms, bewailing her hard 
lot, regretting the lost glories of Kingsland, and nursing 
her resentment toward her odious daughter-in-law; and 
when the bridal pair returned, and Milly timidly suggested 
the propriety of calling, my lady flally refused. 

“ I never will!” she said, spitefully. “ I’ll never call 
on Captain Hunsden’s daughter, let people say what they 
please. I never countenanced the match before he made 
it. I shall not* countenance it now when she has usurped 
my place. She should never have been received in society 
—•a person whose mother was no better than she ought 
to be. ” 

“ But, mamma — ” 

“ Hold your tongue, Milly! You always were a little 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


175 


fool! 1 tell you } will not call on my son’s wife, and no 
more shall yon. Let her come herq. It will humble her 
pride a little, perhaps, and his, too. They both need it. ” 

My lady adhered to her resolution with iron force, and 
received her son, when the day after his return he rode 
over, with freezing formality. But with all that, she was 
none the less deeply displeased when he called and came to 
dinner and left his bride at home. 

“ My humble house is not worthy my lady’s imperial 
presence, 1 dare say,” she remarked, with flashing eyes. 
“ After the magnificence of barrack life and the splendor 
of Hunsden Hall, 1 scarcely wonder she can not stoop to 
your mother’s jointure house. A lady in her position must 
draw the line somewhere. ” 

“ You are unjust, mother,” her son said, striving to 
speak calmly. “You always were unjust to Harriet. If 
you will permit us, we will both do ourselves the pleasure 
of dining with you to-morrow.” 

My lady bowed ironically. 

“It shall be precisely as the Prince and Princess of 
Kingsland please. My poor board will be only too much 
honored. ” 

Sir Everard’s face flushed angrily, but he forebore to re- 
tort. 

“ It is natural, I suppose,” he thought, riding home- 
ward. “ The contrast between Kingsland Court and The 
Grange is striking. She is jealous and angry and hurt — 
poor mother! Harrie must come. with me to-morrow, and 
try to please her. ” 

But when to-*morrow came Harrie had a headache, and 
the baronet was obliged to go alone. 

There was an ominous light in his mother’s eyes, a 
warning compression of the mouth, and a look of troubled 
inquiry in Mildred’s face that told him a revelation was 
coming. • 

His mother’s powerful eyes transfixed him the instant he 
appeared. 

“ I thought your wife was coming?” was her first re- 
mark. 

“ Harriet had a shocking bad headache. She has been 
ill all day,” he replied, hastily. “ It was quite impossible 
for her to leave her room. She regrets — ” 

“That will do, Everard!” His mother rose as she 


176 


THE BAROKET’S JJRTDE. 


/ 


spoke, with a short laugh. “ 1 understaucl it all. Don’t 
trouble yourself to explain. Let us go to the dining-room 
— dinner waits.” 

“ But, my dear mother, it is really as I say. Harrie is 
ill.” 

She looked at him with a glance of infinite scorn and 
contempt. 

“ III? Yes, ill of a guilty conscience, perhaps! Such a 
mother — such a daughter! I always knew how this mad 
inesalUance would end. I don’t know that I am surprised. 
1 don’t know that I regret it. I am only sorry that my 
son’s wife should be the first to disgrace the name of 
Kingsland!” 

Sir Everard started as if an adder had stung him, turn- 
ing dark red. 

“ Disgrace? Take care, mother! That is an ugly 
word. ” 

“ It is. But, however ugly, it is always best to call 
these things by their right names.” 

“ These things! What under heaven do you you mean?” 

“Do you really need to ask?” she said, with cold con- 
tempt. “ Are you indeed so blind and besotted where 
this woman is concerned? Why, my son’s wife is the talk 
of the town, and my son sits here and asks me what I 
mean?” 

The red flush of angpr'faded from the young husband’s 
face, and gave place to the ghastly hue of ashes. 

“ Mamma! mamma!” Mildred said, imjDloringly. 
“ Pray don’t! You are cruel! Don’t say such dreadful 
things!” 

Her brother turned to her, his face white, his lips trem- 
bling with suppressed rage and wounded feeling. 

“ Your mother is cruel, and unjust, and unnatural!” 
he said, in a hard, hoarse voice. “ Do you tell me what 
she means, Mildred.” 

“ Don’t ask me, Everard!” Mildred said, in distress. 
“ We have heard cruel, wicked stories — false, I know — 
about Harrie and — and a stranger — an American gentle- 
man — who is stopping at the Blue Bell Inn.” 

“ Yes, Everard,” his mother said, pity for him, hatred 
of_ his wife, strangely mingled in look and tone, “ your 
bride of a month is the talk of the place. The names of 


THE BAROKET’S BRIDE. 


177 


Lady Kiugslaiid and this unknown man go whispered to- 
gether from lip to lip.’"' 

“ What do they say?’^ ' 

He asked the question in a hard, unnatural voice, the 
deathly pallor of his face unchanging. 

“ Nothing!’^ Mildred exclaimed, indignantly — “ noth- 
ing but their own base suspicions! She nearly fainted at 
first sight of him. lie showed her a picture, and she ran 
out of the room and fell into hysterics. Since then he has 
written to her, and mysterious personages —females in dis- 
guise — visit him at the Blue Bell. That is what they whisper, 
Everard; nothing more.^^ 

“ Nothing more!’^ echoed her mother. “ Quite enough, 
1 think. What would you have. Miss Kingsland? Ever- 
ard, who is this man?” 

He, looked at her, with a strident laugh. 

“ You appear to know more than I do, mother. He is 
an- American — a traveling photograph artist — and my wife 
never laid eyes on- him until she saw him, the day after our 
arrival, in the library. As to the fainting and the hyster- 
ics, I chanced to be in the library all through that first in- 
terview, and I saw neither one nor the other. I am sorry 
to spoil the pretty romance in which you take such evi- 
dent delight, my good, kind, charitable mother; but truth 
obliges me to tell you it is a fabrication from beginning to 
end. And now, if you will be good enough to tell me the 
name of the originator of this report, you will confer upon 
me the last favor I shall ever ask of you. My wife^s honor 
is mine; and neither she nor I will ever set foot in a house 
where such stories are credited — not only credited, but ex- 
ulted in. Tell me the name of your tale-maker. Lady 
Kingsland, and permit me to wish you good-evening. ” 

“ Everard!” his sister cried, in agony. 

But he cut hershort with an impatient wave of his hand. 

“ Hush, Mildred; let my mother speak.” 

“ 1 have nothing to say.” She stood haughtily before 
him, and they looked each other full in the face, mother 
and son. “ My tale-maker is the whole town. You can 
not punish them all, Sir Everard. There is truth in this 
story, or it never would have originated ; and he has writ- 
ten to her-— that is beyond a doubt. Ho has told it him- 
self, and shown her reply.” 

“It is as false as hell!” His eyes blazed like coals of 


178 


THE BAKONET’S BEIDE. 


fire. “ My wife is as pure as the angels, and any one who 
dares doubt that purity, even though it be the mother who 
bore me, is my enemy to the death 

He dashed out of the room, out of the house, mounted 
Sir Galahad, and rode away as if Satan and his hosts were 
after him. 

“Mamma! 'mamma Mildred cried, in unutterable r^ 
proach, “ what have you done?^^ 

“Told him the truth, child. Her face was deathly 
pale, her hands and lips trembling convulsively. “ It is 
better he should know it, although that knowledge parts 
us forever.’^ 

Like a man gone mad the young baronet galloped home. 
The sickly glimmer of the fitful moon shone on a face that 
would never be more ghastly in his coffin — on strained eyes 
and compressed lips. It seemed to him but an instant 
from the time he quitted The Grange until he dashed up 
the avenue at Kingsland, leaped off his foaming bay, and 
strode into the house. Straight to his wife^s room he 
went, fierce, invincible determination in every line of his 
rigid face. 

“ She shall tell me all — she shall, by Heaven!” he cried, 
between his clinched teeth. 

He entered her dressing-room — she was not there; her 
boudoir — she was not there; her bedroom — it too was 
empty. He seized the bell and nearly tore it down. 
Olaudine, the maid, looked in with a startled face. 

“ Where is your mistress?” 

The girl gazed round with a bewildered air. 

“ Is my lady not here, sir? She sent me away over an 
hour ago. She was lying down in her dressing-room; she 
said she was ill. ” 

He looked at her for a moment — it was evident she was 
telling the simple truth. 

“ Send Miss Silver here.” 

“ I am not sure that Miss Silver is in the house. Sir 
Everard. I saw her go out with Edwards some time ago 
but I will go and see.” 

Olaudine departed. Five minutes passed — ten; he stood 
rigid as stone. Then came steps— hurried, agitated— the 
footsteps of a man and a woman. 

He strode out and confronted them— Edwards, his valet. 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 179 

and Sybilla Silver. Both were dressed as from a recent 
walk; both wore strangely pale and agitated faces. 

Edwards barely repressed a cry at ^ight of his master, 
with that fixed, awful face. 

“ What is it?” Sir Everard asked. 

A dull presentiment of some horrible calamity had taken 
possession of him, body and soul. 

The valet looked at Sybilla in blank terror. Mis^ Silver 
covered her face with both hands and turned away. 

“ What is it?” the baronet repeated, in a dull, thick 
voice. “ Where is my wife?” 

“ Sir Everard, I — I don’t know how — she— she is not 
in the house.” 

“ Where is she?” 

“ She is — in the grounds.” 

“ W^here?” 

“ In the Beech Walk.” 

“ With whom?” 

He knew before he put the question. He had left her 
ill — unable to quit her chamber, as she said — and this was 
how he found her, coming home sooner than was antici- 
pated. 

“ With whom?” 

“ With Mr. Parmalee.” 

There was a dead pause. Sybilla clasped her hands and 
looked imploringly up in his face. 

“ Don’t be angry with us. Sir Everard; we could not 
help seeing them. T lost a locket, and Edwards came to 
help me look for it. It was by the merest chance we came 
upon them in the Beech Walk.” 

“I am pot angry,” still in. that dull, thick voice. 
“ Did they see you?” 

“ No, Sir Evferard. ” 

“ Did you hear what they said?” 

“No, Sir Everard; we would not have listened. They 
were talking; my lady seemed dreadfully agitated, appeal- 
ing to him, as it appeared, while he was cool and indiffer- 
ent. Just before we came away we saw her give him all 
the money in her purse. Ah ! here she is now ! For pity’s 
sake, do not betray us. Sir Everard!” 

She flitted away like a swift, noiseless ghost, closely fol- 
lowed by the valet. And an instant later Lady Kingsland, 
wild and pale, and shrouded in a long mantle, turned to 


180 THE BAKONET'S BRIDE. 

enter her dressing-room, and found herself face to face with 
her wrono^ed husband. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE BREAKING 'OF THE STORM. 

She looked at him and recoiled with a cry of dismay, 
lie stood before her so ghastly, so awful, that with a blind, 
unthinking motion of intense terror she put out both 
hands as if to keep him off. 

“ You have reason to fear me!” he said, in a hoarse, 
unnatural voice. “ Wives have been murdered for less 
than this!” 

Sybilla and Edwards heard the ominous words, and 
looked blankly in each other’s faces. They heard no more. 
The baronet caught his wife’s wrist in a grasji of iron, 
drew her into the dressing-room, and closed the door. He 
stood with his back to it, gazing at her, his blue eyes filled 
with lurid rage. 

“ Where have you been?” 

He asked the question in a voice more terrible from its 
menacing calm than any wild outburst of fury. 

His wife’s eyes met his, full and clear and proud. She 
was deathly pale; but she came of a haughty and fearless 
race, and in this hour of her extremity she did not blench. 

“ In the Beech Walk,” she answered, promptly. 

“ With whom?” 

“ With Mr. Parmalee.” 

Her glance never fell. She looked at him proudly, un- 
quailingly, full in the face. The look in his fiaming eyes, 
the tone of his ominous voice, were bitterly insulting, and 
with insult her imperious spirit rose. 

“ And you dare stand before me— you dare look me in 
the face,” he said, between his clinched teeth, “and tell 
me this?” 

“ I dare!” she said, proudly. “ You have yet to learn 
what I dare do. Sir Everard Kingsland!” 

She drew herself up in her beauty and her pride, erect 
and defiant. Her long hair fell loose and unbound, her 
face was colorless as marble; but her dark eyes were flash- 
ing with anger and wounded pride, and at her brightest 
she had never looked more beautiful than she did now. 
In spite of himself he softened a little at the sight. 


THE EAIIONET’S BJIIDE. 


181 


“ So beautiful and so lost!’' he said, bitterly. “ So ut- 
terly deceitful and depraved! Surely what they tell of her 
mother must be true. The taint of dishonor is in the 
blood!" 

The change was instantaneous. The pallor of her face 
turned to a burning red. She clasped her hands with a 
sudden spasm over her heart. 

“My mother!" she gasped. “What do you say of 
her?" 

“ What they say of you — that she was a false and wicked 
wife. Deny it if you can. " . 

Again that change. The crimson flush died out, and 
left her white, and rigid, and cold, with eyes that literally 
blazed. 

“ No," she said, with an imperial gesture of scorn, “ 1 
deny nothing. If my husband can believe such a vile 
slander of his wife of a month, let it be. 1 scorn to deny 
what he credits so easily." 

Sir Everard broke into a bitter laugh. 

“ I am afraid it would tax even your invention, my lady, 
to deny these very plain facts. I leave you- in your room, 
too ill to leave it, too ill by far to ride with me to my 
mother's, but not too ill to get up arid meet your lover — 
shall I say it, madame? — clandestinely in the Beech AValk 
as soon as 1 am gone! You should be a little more care- 
ful, madame, and make sure before you hold those confi- 
dential tele-a-iUes, that the servants a're not listening and 
looking on. Lady Kingsland and Mr. Parmalee are the 
talk of the county alread 3 \ To-night's meeting will be a 
last honne louche added to the spicy dish of scandal." 

“ Have you done?" she said, whiter than ashes. “ Have 
you any moi'e insults to offer?" 

“ Insults!" the baronet repeated, hoarse with passion. 
“ Y"ou do well, madame, to talk of insults — lost, fallen 
creature that you are! You have dishonored an honorable 
name; betrayed a husband who loved and trusted you with 
all his heart; blighted and ruined his life; covered him 
with disgrace! And you stand there and talk of insalt! I 
have loved you as man never loved woman before, but God 
help you, Harriet Kingsland, if I had a pistol now!" 

She fell down on her knees before him, and held up her 
clasped hands. 

“ Kill me!" she cried. “ I am here at your feet— have 


182 


THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 


mercy and stab me to the heart, but do not drive me mad 
with your horrible reproaches! May God forgive me if I 
have brought dishonor upon you, for 1 never meant it! 
Never — never — so help me Heaven !^^ 

“Rise, madame!’^ His voice shook with his inward 
agony. “ Kneel to Him who will judge you for your base- 
ness; it is too late to kneel to me! Oh, great God!^^ — he 
turned away and covered his face with his hands — “ to 
think how I have loved this woman, and how bitterly she 
has deceived me!^' 

The unutterable agony of his tone — that wild, fierce cry 
of anguish — to her dying day Harriet Kingsland might 
never forget it. His words burst from him, every one bit- 
ter, as if tinged with his hearths blood. 

“I loved her and I trusted her! I would have died 
to save her one hour of pain, and this is my reward! Dis- 
honored — disgraced — my life blighted — my heart broken 
— deceived from first to last!^’ 

“ No, no, no!^^ she shrieked aloud, and clung to his 
knees. “ I swear it to you, Everard! I am guiltless! By 
all my hopes of heaven, I am your true, your faithful, your 
loving wife.!’^ 

He turned and looked up at her in white amaze. 
Truth, that no living being could doubt, was stamped in 
agony on that upturned, beautiful face. He looked at her 
in mute anguish words can never paint, forKe loved her — 
he loved her with a' supreme love. 

“Hear me, Everard !^^ she cried — “my own beloved 
husband! 1 met this man to-night because he holds a se- 
cret I am sworn to keep, and that places me in his power. 
But, by all that is high and holy, 1 have told you the sim- 
ple truth about him! I never saw him in all my life until 
1 saw him that day in the library. I have never set 
eyes on him since, except for an hour to-night. Oh, be- 
lieve me, Everard, or I shall die here at your feet!” 

“ And you never wrote to him?” he asked. 

“ Never — never!” 

“Nor he to you?” 

“ Once — the scrawl you saw Sybilla Silver fetch me. I 
never wrote — I never sent him even a message. ” 

“ No?” His powerful eyes transfixed her. “ How, 
then, came you two to meet to-night?” 

“ He wished to see me — to extort money from me for 


THE BAROHET^’S BRIDE. 


183 


the keeping of this secret — and he sent word by Sybilla 
Silver. My answer was, ‘ I will be in ^the Beech Walk at 
eight to-night. If he wishes to see me let him come to 
me there. ^ ” 

“ Then yOu own to have deliberately deceived me? The 
pretended headache was — a lie?'’^ 

“No; it was true.^^ She put her hand distractedly to 
her throbbing forehead. “ It aehes still, until 1 am almost 
blind with the pain. Oh, Everard, be merciful! Have a lit- 
tle pity for me, for I love you, and I am the most wretched 
creature alive 

He drew back from her outstretched arms with a gesture 
of fierce repulsion. 

“ You show your love in a singular way, my Lady Kings- 
land. It is not by keeping guilty secrets from your hus- 
band — by meeting other men by night and by stealth in the 
grounds — that you are to convince me of your love. Tell 
me what this mystery means. I command you, by your 
wifely obedience, tell me this secret at once!^^ 

“ I can not!’^ 

You mean you will not. 

“I cannot.’^ 

His blue eyes gleamed, but he restrained himself. 

“It is a secret of guilt and of shame? Tell me the 
truth ?^’ 

“ It is; but the guilt is not mine. The shame — the bit- 
ter shame — and the burning expiation, God help me, are!’^ 

“ And you refuse to tell me?’^ 

“Everard, I have sworn!^^ ‘‘she cried out, wildly. 
“ Would you have me break a death-bed oath?^^ 

“ I would have ytu break ten thousand such oaths,’’ he 
exclaimed, passionately, “ when they stand between you 
and your husband! Harriet Hunsden, your dead father 
was a villain!” 

She sprung to her feet — she had been kneeling all this 
time— and confronted him like a Saxon pythoness. Her 
great gray eyes actually flashed fire. 

“ Go!” she cried. “ Leave me this instant! Were you 
ten times my husband, you should never insult the mem- 
ory of the best, the noblest, the most devoted of fathers! 
I will never forgive you the words you have spoken until 
my dying day!” 

“ You forgive!” he retorted, with sneering scorn, stung 


184 


THE BAKOKET^S BRIDE. 


out of all generosity. “ Forgiveness is no word for such 
lips as yours. Lady Kingsland! Keep your guilty secret, 
or your father’s or your mother’s, whosoever it may be; 
but not as my wife! Ko, madame! when the world begins 
to point the finger of scorn, through her own evil-doing, at 
the woman I have married, then from that hour she is no 
longer my wife. The woman who meets by night, and by 
stealth, the sharer of her hidden secrets, is no longer 
worthy to bear an honorable name. The law of divorce 
shall free you and your secrets together; but until that 
freedom comes, I command you — do you hear, mistress? — 
1 command you to meet this man no more! On your peril 
you write to him, or speak to him, or meet him again. If 
you do, by the living Lord, 1 will murder you both!” 

He dashed out of the room like a man gone mad, leav- 
ing her standing petrified in the middle of the floor. 

One instant she stood, the room heaving, the walls rock- 
ing around her; then, with a low, moaning cry, she tot- 
tered blindly forward and fell like a stone to the floor. 

The storm burst at midnight. A gale surged through 
the trees with a noise like thunder; the rain fell in tor- 
rents. And while rain and wind beat tempestuously over 
the earth and the roaring sea, the husband paced up and 
down the library, with clinched teeth and locked hands 
and death-like face— for the time utterly mad-— and the 
wife lay alone in her luxuriant room, deaf and blind to 
the tempest, in a deep swoon. 


* CriAPTEK XXVI. 

“the person in LONDON.” 

The February day was closing in London in a thick, 
clammy, yellow fog. No keen frost, no sparkling stars 
brightened the chill spring twilight; the sky, where it 
could be seen, was of a uniform leaden tint, the damp 
mist wet you to the bone, and a long, lamentable blast 
whistled around the corners and pierced chillingly through 
the thickest wraps — a bleak and ghostly gloaming— and 
passengers strode through the greasy black mud with surly 
faces and buttoned-up great-coats and the inevitable Lon- 
don umbrella. 

At the window of a dull and dirty little lodging a worn- 


THE BA ROHET’S BRIDE. 185 

ail sat, ill this tlarjv gloaming, gazing out at the passers- 
by. It was a stuffy, nasty little back street, and there 
were very few passers-by this black, bad February even- 
ing. The house had a perpetual odor of onions and cab- 
bage and dinner, as it is in the nature of such houses to 
have, and the room, “ first floor front,^^ was in the last 
stage of lodging-house shabbiness and discomfort. 

The woman was quite alone — a still, dark figure sitting 
motionless by the grimy window. She might have been 
carved in stone, so still she sat — so still she had sat for 
more than two hours. Her worn hand lay idly in her lap, 
her dark eyes looked straight before her with a fixed, dull 
despair dreadful to see. 

Her dress was black, of the poorest sort, frayed and 
worn, and she shivered under a threadbare shawl drawn 
close around her shoulders. Yet, in spite of poverty and 
sickness, and despair and, middle age, the woman was 
beautiful still, with a dark and haggard and wild sort of 
beauty that would have haunted one to one’s dying day. 

In her youth, and her first freshness and innocence, she 
must have been lovely as a dream; but that loveliness was 
all gone now — fierce sin and burning shame and bitter deg- 
radation were all stamped indelibly on that dark, despair- 
ing face. 

The listless hands lay still, the great, glittering dark 
eyes stared blankly at the dingy houses opposite, at the 
straggling pedestrians, at the thickening gloom. The 
short February day was almost night now, the street-lamps 
flared yellow and dull athwart the clammy fog. 

“ Another day,” the woman murmured, slowly — “ an- 
other endless d-ay of sick despair gone. Alone and dying 
— the most miserable creature on the wide earth. Oh, 
great God, who didst forgive Magdalene, have a little pity 
on me!” 

A spasm of fierce anguish crossed her face for an instant, 
fading away, and leaving the hoj^eless despair more hope- 
less than before. 

“lam mad, worse than mad, to hope as I do. She will 
never look upon my guilty face — she so pure, so stainless, 
so sweet — how dare I ask it? Oh, what happy women 
there are in the world! Wives who love and are beloved, 
and are faithful to the end! And I — think how I drag on 
living with all that makes life worth having gone forever. 


186 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


while those happy ones, whose lives are one blissful dream, 
are torn by death from all who love them. To think that 
1 once had a husband, a child, a home; to think what 1 
am now — to think of it, and not to go mad!^^ 

She laid her face against the cold glass with a miserable 
groan. “ Have pity on me, oh, Lord!’^ was her despair- 
ing wail, “ and let me die!^^ 

There was a rush of carriage- wheels without, a hansom 
cab whirled up to the door, and a tall young man leaped 
out. Two minutes more and the tall young man burst 
impetuously into the dark room. 

“ All alone, Mrs. Denover,’^ called a cheery voice, “ and 
all in the dark? Darkness isn’t wholesome — too conducive 
to low spirits and the blue devils. Halloo! Jane Anne, 
idol of my young affections, bring up the gas.” 

He leaned over the greasy baluster, shouting into the in- 
visible regions below, and was answered promptly enough 
by a grimy maid-servant with a flickering dip-candle. 

“ ’Tain’t my fault, nor yet missis’s,” said this grimy 
maid, in an aggrieved tone. “ Mrs. Denover will sit in 
the dark, which I’ve — ” 

“ That will do, Jane Anne,” taking the dip and un- 
ceremoniously cutting her short. “Vamose! evaporate! 
When I want you I’ll sing out.” 

He re-entered the room and placed the candle on the 
table. The woman 'had risen, and stood with both hands 
clasped over her heart, a wild, gleaming, eager light in 
her black eyes. But she strove to restrain herself. 

“lam glad to see you back, Mr. Parmalee,” she said, 
falteringly. “ 1 have been expecting you for the last two 
days.” 

“ And wearing yourself to skin and bone, as I knew you 
would, with your fidgets. What’s the good of taking on 
so? I ^old you I’d come back as quick as I could, and I’ve 
done so. It ain’t my fault that the time’s been so long — 
it’s Lady Kingsland’s.” 

The wild look grew wilder; she came a step nearer. 

“ You have seen her?” 

“ That I have. And very well worth seeing she is, I 
tell you. She’s as handsome as a picture, though not so 
handsome as you must have been at her age, either, Mrs. 
Denover. And she says she’ll see you. ” 

“ Oh, thank God!”' 


THE BAKONET’S BRIDE. 187 

The woman tottei’ed back and sunk into a chair, utterly 
unable to stand. v 

“ That^s right/' said Mr. Farm alee; “ take a seat, and 
let us talk it all over at our ease." 

He took one himself, not in the ordinary humdrum 
fashion, but with his face to the back, his arms crossed 
over it, and his long legs twisted scientifically round the 
bottom. 

“I've seen him, and I've seen her," said the photog- 
rapher, “ and a finer-looking couple ain't from here to 
anywhere. And as the Lord made 'em. He matched 'em, 
for an all-fired prouder pair you couldn't meet in a sum- 
mer-day's walk." 

“ She comes of a proud race," the woman murmured, 
feebly. “ The Hunsdens are of the best and eldest stock 
in England." 

“ And she's a thorough-bred, if ever there was a thor- 
ough-bred one yet, and blood will show in a woman as well 
as a horse. Yes, she's proud, and she's handsome and 
high-stepping, and dreadful cut up, I can tell you, at the 
news 1 brought her. " 

The woman covered her face with her hands with a low 
moan. Mr. Parmalee composedly went on: 

“ She knew your picture the minute she clapped eyes on 
it. I was afraid she might holler, as you wimmin do, at 
the sight, and her husband and another young woman 
were present; but she's got grit, that girl, the real sort. 
She turns round, by George! and gives me such a look — 
went through me like a carving-knife — and gets up with- 
out a word and walks away. And she never sent for me 
nor asked a question about it, although I mentioned you 
gave it to me yourself, until 1 forced her to it, and after 
that no one need talk to me about the curiosity of the fair 
sex." 

“ Does her husband know?" 

“No; and he's as jealous as a Turk. I wrote her a note 
— just a line — and sent it by that other young woman 1 
spoke of, and what does he do but come to me like a roar- 
ing lion, and like to pummel my innards out! 1 owe him 
one for that, and I'll pay him off, too. I had to send 
again to my lady before she would condescend to see me, 
but when she did, I must say she behaved like a trump. 
She gave me thirty sovereigns plump down, promised me 


188 


THE EAIIONET’s ERIDE. 


three hundred j)Oimds, and told rnc to letch you along. 
Jt ainH as much as I expected to make in this speculation; 
but, on the whole, I consider it a pretty tolerable fair 
stroke of business.’^ 

“Thank God!’^ the woman whispered, her face still 
hidden— “ th^nk God! thank God! 1 shall see my lost 
darling once before I die!” 

“ Now don’t you go and take on, Mrs. Denover,” ob- 
served Mr. Parmalee, “ or you’ll use yourself up, you 
know, and then you won’t be able to travel to-morrow. 
x\nd after to-morrow, and after you see your — Well, my 
lady, there’s the other little trip back to Uncle Sam’s do- 
mains you’ve got to make; for, of course, you ain’t a-go- 
ing to stay in England and pester that poor young lady’s 
life out?” 


“ No,” said Mrs. Denover, mournfully — “no, I will 
never trouble her again. Only let me see her once more, 
and I will go back to my native land and wait until the 
merciful God sends me death.” 

“ Oh, pooh!” said the artist; “ don’t you talk like that 
— it kind of makes my flesh creep, and there ain’t no sense 
in it. There’s Aunt Deborah, down to our section— you 
remind me of her — she was always going on so, wishing 
she was in heaven, or something horrid, the whole time. 
It’s want of victuals more than anything else. You 
haven’t had any dinner. I’ll be bound!” 

“No; I could not eat. ” 

“Nor supper?”' 

“No; I never thought of it.” 

Mr. Parmalee got up, and was out of the room and 
hanging over the baluster in a twinkling. 

“ Here you, Jane Anne!” 

Jane Anne appeared. 

“Fetch up supper, and look sharp — supper for two. 
Go ’round the corner and get us some oysters and a pint 
of port, and fetch up some baked potatoes and hot mut- 
ton chops — and quick about it.” 

“Now, then,” said Mr. Parmalee, reappearing, “I’ve 
been and dispatched the slavey for provisions, and you’ve 
got to eat, marm, when they come. I won’t have people 
living on one meal a day, and wishing they were in heaven, 
when I’m around. You’ve got to eat and drink, or you 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 189 

The threat was Effective. The woman looked at him 
with wistful, yearning dark eyes. ' 

“ 1 will do whatever you think best, Mr. Parmalee,” 
she said, humbly. “ You have been Very good to me.” 

“ I know it,” said Mr. Parmalee, with a nod. “ 1 
alwa 3 ’s do the polite thing with your sex. My mother was 
a woman. She’s down in Maine now, and can churn and 
milk eight cows, and do chores, and make squash pie. 
Oh! them squash pies of my old lady’s require to be eat to 
be believed in, and, for her sake, I always take to elderly 
female parties in distress. Here’s the forage. Come in, 
Jane Anne, beloved of my soul, and dump ’em down and 
go.” 

Jane Anne did. Mr. Parmalee whipped off the covers, 
and a most savory odor arose. 

“ Now, Mrs. Denover, you sit right up and fall to. 
Here’s oysters, and here’s mutton chops, raging hot, and 
baked potatoes — delicious to look at. And here’s a glass 
of port wine, and you’ve got to drink it without a whim- 
per. Mind what 1 told you; you don’t budge a step to- 
morrow unless you eat a hearty supper to-night. Pve said 
it, and what I say is like the laws of the Swedes and — 
what’s their names?” 

“ You are very good to me,” Mrs. Denover repeated, 
humbly and gratefully. “ What would have become of 
me but for you?” 

She strove to oat and drink to please him and to sustain 
her feeble strength, but every morsel seemed to choke her. 
She pushed away her plate at last and looked at him im- 
ploringly. 

“ J can not eat another mouthful. Indeed I would if I 
could. I have no appetite at all of late.” 

“ That’s plain to be seen. Well, if you can’t, you 
can’t, of course. And now, as it’s past nine, the best 
thing you can do is to go to bed at once, and get a good 
sleep before starting on your journey.” 

With the same humility she had evinced throughout, 
the woman obeyed at once. Mr. Parmalee, left alone, 
sat over his oysters and his port, luxuriating in the thirty 
sovereigns in the present and the three hundred pounds in 
the prospective. 

“It’s been an uncommon good investment,” he reflect- 
ed, “ and knocks the photograph business into a cocked 


190 


THE baronet’s BRIDE, 


hat. Then there’s Sybilla— she goes with the bargain, 
too. Three hundred pounds and a handsome, black-eyed 
wife. I wish she hadn’t such a devil of a temper; but it’s 
in the grain of your black-eyed gals. I’ll take her home 
to the farm, and if mother doesn’t break her in she’ll be 
the first she ever failed with.” 

Mr. Parnialee retired betimes, slept soundly, and was 
up, brisk and breezy, somewhere in the gray and dismal 
day-dawn. Breakfast, piping hot, smoked on the table 
when Mrs. Denover appeared— a wan, worn specter in the 
hollow morning light. 

“ Eat, drink and be merry,” said Mr. Parmalee. 
“ Here’s the feast of reason and the flow of soul. Go in 
and win, Mrs. Denover. Try that under-done steak, and 
don’t look quite, ^o much like the ghost of Hamlet’s fa- 
ther, if you can help it.” 

The woman tried with touching humility to please him, 
and did her best, but that best was a miserable failure. 

A cab came for them in half an hour, and whirled them 
off on the first stage of their journey. 

In the golden light of the sunny spring afternoon Mr. 
Parmalee made his appearance again at the Blue Bell Inn, 
with a mysterious veiled lady, all in black, hanging 'on his 
arm. 

“ This here lady is my maiden aunt, come over from 
the State of Maine to see yodr British institutions,” Mr. 
Parmalee said, in fluent fiction, to the obsequious land- 
lady. “ She’s writing a book, and she’ll mention the 
Blue Bell favorably in it. Her name is Miss Hepzekiah 
Parmalee. Let her have your best bedroom and all the 
luxuries this here hotel affords, and I ” — with a superb 
wave of the hand — “ will foot the bill.” 

He lighted a cigar and sallied forth, leaving his pale, 
shrinking companion in charge of the curious landlady. 

“Miss Hepzekiah Parmalee ” dined alone in her own 
room; then sat by the window, with white face and 
strained eyes, waiting for Mr. Parmalee’s return. 

It was almost dark when he came. Ho entered hurried- 
ly, flushed and excited. 

“ Fortune favors us this bout, Mrs. Denover,” he said. 
“ I’ve met an old chum down on the wharf yonder — a 
countryman — and I’d as soon have expected to find the 
President of the United States in this little one-horse town. 


/ 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


191 


His name’s Davis — Captain Davis, of the schooner ‘ An- 
gelina Dobbs ’—and he’s going to sail for Sojithampton 
this very night, if the wind holds. (There’s a streak of 
luck, marm. A free passage for you and for me up to 
Southampton tornight.” 

“ But my — Lady Kingsland?” she faltered. 

“ I’ve made that all right, too. 1 met one of the 
flunkies— an under-gardener — and sent word to Sybilla — a 
young lady that lives in the house — that we were here, and 
that she’d better see us at once. I expect an answer 
every — Ah, by George! speak ot the — here she is!” 

It was Miss Sybilla Silver, sailing gracefully down the 
street. Mr. Parmalee darted out and met her-— superbly 
handsome, her dark cheeks flushed with some inward ex- 
citement, her black eyes gleaming with strange fire. The 
stoical artist was fairly dazzled. 

“ Is she here?” she breathlessly asked. 

Mr. Pacmalee nodded toward the window. It was not a 
very lover-like greeting. They did not even shake hands; 
but then curious eyes were watching them. 

Sybilla gazed up a moment at the pale, haggard face 
with her gleaming eyes. 

“ They are alike,” she said, under her breath — “ moth- 
er and daughter — and that face is scarcely more haggard 
than the other now. We have had a dreadful quarrel, 
Mr. Parmalee, since you left, up at the Court.” 

“ Want to know about me?” 

“ Partly. About the secret — about that meeting in the 
Beech Walk. He absolutely threatened her life.” 

“ Should like to have been there to hear him,” said Mr. 
Parmalee. “ It would be paying off old scores a little. 
How did she take it?” 

“ She fainted. Her maid found her in a dead swoon 
next morning. She did not tell Sir Everard, by my 
advice; he would have- been for making it up directly. 
They have not met since — my doing, too. He thinks she 
is sulking in her room. He is half mad to be reconciled 
— to make a fool of himself, asking pardon, and all that 
— but I have taken good care he shall not. He thinks she 
is obstinate and sullen; she thinks he is full of nothing 
but rage and revenge. It is laughable to manage them. ” 

“ Fun to you, but death to them,” observed the artist 
“ You are flinty, Sybilla, and no mistake. I’m pretty 


192 THE baronet'^ bride. 

hard myself, bufe I could n^t torment folks like that in cold 
blood. It’s none of my business, however, and 1 don’t 
care how high you pile the agony on him. Did you tell 
her the elderly party was here?” 

“ Yes. She has not left her room for three days. She 
is the shadow of her former self, and she was dreadfully 
agitated upon hearing it; but she answered, firmly, ‘ 1 will 
see her, and at once. 1 will meet her to-night. 1 asked 
where, and then, for the first time, she was at a loss.” 

“ The Beech Walk,” suggested the artist. 

The Beech Walk is watched. Sir Everard’s spies are 
on the lookout. No — I know a better place. The young 
plantation slopes down to the very water’s edge; the 
shrubbery is thick and dense, the spot gloomy; no one 
ever goes there* You can come by water and fetch her in 
the boat. Land on the shore under the stone terrace, 
about midnight. All will have retired, and my lady will 
meet you there.” 

“ And you, Sybilla? The old lady and me, we sail at 
the turn of the tide for Southampton — from there to take 
passage for America. 1 suppose you hain’t forgotten your 
promise to marry me?” 

She laughed softly — a sweet, derisive laugh. 

“ Is it likely, George? I will follow you to America 
and we will be married there. It is impossible for rne to 
go with you now. You can wait a couple of months, can 
you not?” ' ' 

. “But—” 

She laid her hand on his arm softly and looked up in 
his face with luminous eyes of dusky splendor. 

“ You must wait, George. I love you, and I will follow 
you and be your true and devoted wife. But you must 
wait a little. Say you agree, and let us part until we 
meet again— where? In New York?” 

“ I suppose so,” Mr. Parmalee responded, gruffly. 

“ You’re boss in this business, it seems, and I’ve got to 
do as you say. But it’s hard on a fellow; I calk’lated on 
taking you over with me.” 

“ Would you have me go to you penniless? If you wait 
1 will come to you with a fortune. Don’t ask questions, 
and don’t stand staring. Believe me, and trust me, and 
wait. You will be on the stone terrace at twelve to-night?” 

“ She will,” said the American. “ I’ll wait in the ♦ 


THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 


193 


boat. ^ •’Tain’t likely they want me to be present at their 
interview. J list remind my lady to fetch along the three 
hundred pounds, and don^'t let her fail to come. I want 
to sail in the ‘ Angelina Dobbs * to-night. 

“ She will not fail. She will conie.^^ 

Her eyes blazed up with a lurid fire as sne said it. A 
strange, unearthly light illumined her dark face for an in- 
stant, and was gone. 

“ She will be there, she said, “ and she shall fetch the 
three hundred pounds. Do you not fail!’^ 

“ I will not. Will you be there, too, Sybilla?’^ 

“I? Of course not. There is no need of me.^^ 

“ Then we say good-bye here?^^ 

“Yes. Good-bye, George, until we meet in New 
York.^' 

She laughed up in his face — a laugh of pure derision ; 
but he did not know it. 

“ I will write to you from there, he said, wringing her 
hand. “ Good-bye, Sybilla! I will be at the trysting- 
place to-night. Be sure the other party is, too. 

“ Without fail. Adieu, and — forever!’^ 

She waved her hand and flitted away, uttering the last 
word under her breath. 

Mr. Parmalee watched her out of sight, heaved a heavy 
sigh, and went back to the house. 

Swiftly Sybilla Silver fluttered along in the chill even- 
ing, wind, her face to the sunset sky. But not the pale 
yellow luster of that February sunset lighted her dark face 
with that lurid, unnatural light — the flame burned within. 
Two fierce red spots blazed on either cheek; her eyes 
glowed like living coals; her hands were clinched under 
her shawl. 

“ She will be there,^' she whispered, under her breath 
* — “ she will be there, but she never will return. By the 
wrongs of the dead, by the vengeance I have sworn, this 
night shall be her last on earth. And he shall pay the 
penalty — my oath will be kept, the astrologer's prediction 
fulfilled, and Zenith the gypsy avenged!" 


7 


194 


THE -baronet’s BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“ HAVE YOU PRAYED TO-NIGHT, DESDEMONA?” 

The sun went down— a fierce and wrathful sunset. 
Black and brazen yellow fiamed in the western sky; the sea 
lay glassy and breathless; the wind came in fitful gusts 
until the sun went down, and then died out in dead and 
ominous calm. The trees in the park shivered and 
moaned — their prescience of coming storm; inky clouds 
scudded over the wrathful sky; night fell an hour before 
it,s time. * 

My lady sat by her chamber window, looking out at 
black sea and blacker sky; Exquisite pictures, wonderful 
bric-a-brac treasures, inlaid tables and cabinets, richest 
carpets and, curtains, and chairs that were like ivory 
touched up with gold, made the room a miracle of' beauty. 

Books and fiowers — all of the brightest and best— full- 
length mirrors, a Hjou of a Swiss clock that played lovely 
little tunes— everything love and money combined could 
procure was there to brighten my lady’s bower. 

But my lady herself, sitting alone amid the rose-colored 
curtains, looking blankly out at the menacing sky. Wore a 
face as dark as that sky itself. She had wasted to a shad- 
ow; dark circles und!er her 'hollow eyes told of sleepless 
nights and wretched days; her cheeks were haggard, her 
lips bloodless. 

The white morning-dress she still wore clung loosely 
around her wasted figure; all the bright hair was pushed 
impatiently off her face and confined in a net. 

What did it matter what she wore, since she never left 
the room — since his eyes never fell on her? 

No one who had seen Harrie Hunsden, radiant as 
Hebe, blooming as Venus, daring as Diana, at the mem- 
orable fox-hunt of a little more than a year ago, would 
ever have recognized this haggard, pallid, wretched-look- 
ing Lady Kingsland as the same. 

She sat still and alone, gazing out at the dreary desola- 
tion of earth and heaven. The great house was still as a 
tomb; the bustle of the servants’ regions was far removed; 
the gnawing of a mouse behind the black paneling, the 
soft ticking of the toy clock sounded unnaturally loud. 


THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 


195 


The pale, fixed face, the dark, despairing eyes were 
strangely like that .other worn face that had gazed from 
the shabby Londbii lodging-house but two evenings before. 

“ Darkening,^ ^ Harriet thought, looking: at the leaden 
twilight — “darkening, like my life. Not two months a 
wife, and his love and trust gone forever. May Heaven 
pity me, for there is none on earth!” 

There was a tap at the door. Lady Kingsland had 
learned to know that soft, light tap — she had heard it 
often of late. A shiver ran over her, her pale lips com- 
pressed, her face set cold and rigid as marble. 

“ Come in,” she said; and Sybilla entered. 

She did not pause at the closed door as usual; she glided 
noiselessly across the room and stood beside her. So like 
a ghost she came, her dead-black garments making no 
rustle, her footfall making no sound, her white face awfully 
corpse-like in the spectral light, her black eyes glowing 
like a cat’s in the dark; my lady shrunk in absolute 
affright. 

“ Don’t come any nearer!” she cried, putting out her 
hands. “ What do you want?” 

“I have seen Mr. Parnialee, my lady.” 

Her tones were the same as usual — soft, and melodious, 
and respectful. But the gentle voice did not reassure 
Lady Kingsland. 

“Well?” she said, coldly. 

“ He will be there, my lady. At half past eleven to- 
night you will find — your mother ” — slowly and distinctly 
— “ waiting for you on the terrace down by the shore.” 

“ Half past eleven. Why so yery late?” 

“ My lady, it will not be safe for you to venture out be- 
fore. You are watched!” 

She sunk her voice to a thrilling whisper. My lady’s 
pale face flushed vivid red in an instant. 

“ Watched!” she repeated, haughtily. “ Do you mean, 
Sybilla Silver—” 

“ I mean, my lady,” Miss Silver said, firmly, “ Sir 
Everard has set spies. The Beech Walk is watched by 
night and by day. Olaudine is little better than a tool in 
the hands of Edwards, the valet, with whom she is in love. 
She tells everything to Edwards, and Edwards repeats to 
his master. A quarter past eleven all will be still— the 
household will have retired— you may venture forth in 


196 


THE baronet’s bride. 


safety. The night will be dark, the way lonely and dis- 
mal; but you know it every inch. On the stone terrace, 
at half past eleven, you will find— your mother awaiting 
you. You can talk to her in perfect safety, and for as 
long as you choose.” 

The dark-red glow — a burning fire of shame— -yet lighted 
my lady’s face. 

“ Have you seen her?” she asked. 

“ At the window of the Blue Bell Inn — yes, my lady. It 
is very rash for her to expose herself, too, for hers is a 
face to strike attention at once, if only for the wreck of its 
beauty, and for its unutterable look of despair. But as 
she leaves again so soon, I dare say nothing will come of 
it.” 

“ When do they leave?” 

“ To-night. It appears a friend of Mr. Parmalee is 
captain of a little vessel down in the harbor, and he sails 
for Southampton at the turn of the tide — somewhere past 
midnight. It is a very convenient arrangement for all 
parties. By the bye, Mr. Parmalee told me to remind 
you, my lady, of the three hundred pounds.” 

“ Mr. Parmalee is impertinent. I need no reminder. 
Have you anything more to say. Miss Silver?” 

“Only this, my lady: the servants’ entrance ‘on the 
south side of the house will be the safest way for you to 
take, and the nearest. If you dread the long, dark walk, 
my lady, I will be only too happy to accompany you.” 

A stare, haughty and angry, was all Miss Silver’s reward 
for this. 

“ You are very good. I don’t in the least dread it. 
When I wish you to accompany me anywherO I will say 
so.” 

Sybilla bowed, rebuked, and the darkness hid a sinister 
smile. She had known what the reply would be before- 
hand. 

“ You have no orders for me, then, my lady?” 

“ None. Yes, you had better see Claudine, and say I 
shall not require her services to-night. Inform me when 
the servants have all retired, and ” — a momentary hesita- 
tion, but still speaking proudly — “does Sir Everard dine 
at home this evening?” 

“ Sir Everard just rode off as I came in, my lady. He 
dines with Major Morrell and the officers, and will not re- 


THE BAEONET^S BRIDE. 197 

turn until past midnight, very likely. He is always late 
at those military dinners/^ v 

“ That will do; you may go.^^ 

“ Shall I not light the lamp, my lady?” 

“No; be good enough to leave me.” 

Sybilla quitted the room, her white teeth set together 
in a viperish clinch. 

“ How she hates me, and how resolved she is to show it! 
Very well, my lady. You doiiT hate me one thousandth 
part as much as I hate you; and yet my hatred of you is 
but a drop in the ocean compared to my deadly vengeance 
against your husband. Go, my haughty Lady Kingsland 
— go to your tryst^ — go to your death!” 

Left alone, Harriet sat in the deepening darkness for 
over three hours, never moving — still and motionless as if 
turned to stone. 

The very “ blackness of darkness ” reigned without. 
Sky and earth and sea were one inky pall of gloom. The 
wind was rising again in wailing gusts, sobbing through 
the trees like a human thing in misery; the dull wash of 
the booming waves, far down on the shore, sounded like 
distant thunder. 

And still my lady sat, her eyes fixed on the rayless 
blackness, her hands locked together in her lap — the gloom 
of the ghastly February night not half so deep, not half so 
deadly as the gloom of her heart. 

The pretty Swiss clock played a waltz preparatory to 
striking eleven. She sat and listened until the last musical 
chime died away; then she rose, groped her way to the 
low, marble chimney-piece, struck a lucifer, and lighted a 
large lamp. 

The brilliant light flooded the room. Sybilla^s rap came 
that same instant softly upon the door. 

“ My lady.” 

“ I hear,” my lady said, not opening it. “ What is it?” 

“All have retired; the house is as still as the grave. 
The south door is unfastened; the coast is clear.” 

“It is well. Good-night.” 

“Good-night.” 

She stood a moment listening to the soft rustle of Miss 
Silver^s skirts in the passage, then, slowly and mechanic- 
ally, she began to prepare for her night’s work. 

She took a long, shrouding mantle, wrapped it around 


198 THE barohet’s bride. 

her, drew the hood over her head, and exchanged her 
.slippers for stout walking-shoes. Then she unlocked her 
writing-case and drew forth a roll of bank-notes, thrust 
them into her bosom, and stood ready. 

But she paused an instant yet. She stood before one of 
the full-length mirrors, looking at her spectral face, so hol- 
low, so haggard, out of which all the youth and beauty 
seemed gone. 

“ And this is what one short month ago he called bright 
and beautiful — this wasted, sunken-eyed vision. Youth 
and beauty, love and trust and happiness, home and hus- 
band, all lost Oh, my father, what have you done?'^ 

She gave bne dry, tearless sob. The clock struck the 
quarter past. The sound aroused her. 

“ My mother/^ she said — “ let me think I go to meet 
my mother. Sinful, degraded, an outcast, ^ut still my 
mother. Let me think of that, and be brave. 

She opened her door; the stillness of death reigned. She 
glided down the corridor, down the sweeping stair-way, the 
soft carpeting muffling every tread — the dim night-lamps, 
burning the night through in those spacious passages, 
lighting her on her way. 

No human sound startled her. All in the house were 
peacefully- asleep — all save that flying flgure, and one 
other wicked watcher. She gained the door in safety. It 
yielded to her touch. She opened it, and was out alone in 
the black, gusty night. 

The path leading to the stone terrace through the plan- 
tation was as familiar to Lady Kingsland as path could be 
— a gloomy path even at midday, lost in shadows, deserted 
and lonely as the heart of some primeval forest. But at 
this ghostly hour, under yonder black sky, with the wind 
roaring in unearthly shrieks through the rocking trees, it 
required no ordinary courage to face its dismal horrors. 

But Harriet Kingsland^s brave heart quailed only for a 
moment; then she plunged resolutely forward into the 
gloom. Slipping, stumbling, faliing, rising again, the 
wind beating in her face, the branches catching like angry 
hands at her garments — still she hurried on. Her heart 
seemed to have ceased its throbbings, the white dew of un- 
utterable horror stood on her brow, but \Yith hands out- 
spread before her, with wild eyes straining the darkness, 
she went bravely on. It was a long, long, tortuous path. 


199 


tHE BAROI^-ET’S bride. 

but it came to ,an end. The roar of the sea sounded 
awfully loud as it 'rose in sullen n\ajesty, the flags of the 
stone terrace rang under her feet. Panting, breathless, 
cold as death, she leaned against the iron railing, her bands 
pressed hard over her tumultuous heart. 

It was light here. A fitful midnight moon, pale and 
feeble, was breaking through a rift in the clouds, and 
shedding its sickly glimmer over the black earth and rag- 
ing sea. To her eyes, accustomed to the dense darkness, 
every object was plainly visible. She strained her gaze 
over the waves to catch the coming boat she knew was to 
bear those shd had come to meet; she listened breathlessly 
to every sound. But for a weary while she listened, and 
watched, and waited in vain. What was that? A foot- 
step crashing through the under-wood near at hand. She 
turned with a wordless cry of terror. A tall, dark figure 
emerged from the trees and strode straight toward her. 
An awful voice spoke: 

“ 1 swore by the Lord who made me I would murder 
you if you ever came again to meet that man. False wife, 
accursed traitoress, meet your doom 

She uttered a long, low cry. She recognized the voice 
— it was the voice of her husband; she recognized the 
form, — her husband^s — towering over her, * with a long, 
gleaming dagger in his hand. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

OK THE STOKE TERRACE. 

Whek Sybilla Silver parted from Lady Kingsland out- 
side the chamber door, she went straight to her own room, 
and began her preparations for that night^s work. 

The flaming red spots, all foreign to her usual complex- 
ion, blazed on either cheek-bone; her black eyes shone like 
the eyes of a tigress crouched in a jungle. 

But she never faltered — she never wavered in her deadly 
purpose. The aim of her whole life was to be fulfilled this 
night — the manes of her dead kinsfolk to be appeased. 

Her first act was to sit down and write a note. It was 
very brief, illy spelled, vilely written, on a sheet of coarsest 
paper, and sealed with a big blotch of red wax and the 
impress of a grimy thumb. This is what Miss Silver wrote : 


^00 THE baronet’s bride. 

“ JSuR Heverard Kingsland: 

“ Honured Sir, — This is to Say that my Lady is 
Promised the hamerican Gent, for to meet him this Night 
at Midnight on the Stone Terrace, Which honoured Sir you 
ought to Know., which is why 1 write. * 

“ Yours too Command, A Friend. 

The young lady smiled over this composition the smile 
of a beautiful devil. 

“ This will do it, I think. Sir Everard will visit the 
stone terrace to-night before he sleeps. It will be fully 
eleven, probably half past, before he comes home. He 
will find this anonymous communication awaiting him. 
He will fume and stamp and spurn it, but he will go, all 
the same. And Ihen!’' 

She sealed the note, directed it in the same 'atrocious fist 
to the baronet, and then, rising, proceeded deliberately to 
undress. 

But not to go to bed. A large bundle lay on a chair: she 
opened it, drew forth a full suit of man^s attire — an even- 
ing suit that the young baronet had worn but a few times, 
and the very counterpart of that which he wore to-night. 

Miss Silver stood before the glass and arrayed herself in 
these. She was so tall that they fitted her very well, and 
when her long hair yas scientifically twisted up, and a hat 
of Sir Everard’s crushed down upon it, she was as hand- 
some a young fellow as you could see in a long day’s search. 

That vague and shadowy resemblance to the baronet, 
which Mr. Parmalee had once noticed, was very palpable 
and really striking when she threw over all a long riding- 
cloak which Sir Everard often wore. 

“You will do, I think,” she said, to her transformed 
image in the glass. “ Even my lady might mistake you 
for her husband in the uncertain moonlight.” 

She left the mirror, crossed the room, unlocked a trunk, 
with a key she took out of her bosom, and drew forth a 
morocco scabbard case. The crest of the Kingslands and 
the monogram “ E. K.,” fancifully wrought, decorated 
the leather. 

Opening this, she drew forth a long, glittering Spanish 
stiletto, not much thicker than a coarse needle, but strong 
and glittering and deadly keen. On the shining blade the 
monogram “ E. K. ” was again wrought. 


THE BAIiOHET^S BRIDE. 201 

“ Sir Everard has not missed his pretty toy yet/’ she 
muttered. “If he had only dreamed, when he saw it 
first, not a fortnight ago, of. the deed it would do this 
night!’’ 

She closed the trunk, thrust the dagger into its scab- 
bard, the scabbard into her bosom, blew out the lamp, and 
softly opened the door. She paused a second to listen. 
All was still as the grave. 

She locked her door securely, put the key in her pocket, 
and stole toward Sir Everard’s rooms. Her kid slippers 
fell light as snow-flakes on the carpet. She opened the 
baronet’s dressing-room door. It had been his sleeping- 
room, too, of late. His bed stood ready prepared; a lamp 
burned dimly on the dressing-table. Beside the lamp Miss 
Silver placed her anonymous letter, then retreated as 
noiselessly as she had entered, shut the door, and glided 
stealthily down the corridor, down the stairs, along the 
passages, and out of the same door which my lady had 
passed not ten minutes previously. 

Swift as a snake, and more deadly of purpose, Sybilla 
glided along the gloomy avenues of the wood toward the 
sea-side terrace. Every nerve seemed strung like steel, 
every fiber of her body quivered to its utmost tension. Her 
eyes blazed in the dark like the eyes of a wild cat; she 
looked like a creature possessed of a devil. 

She reached the extremity of the woodland path almost 
as soon as her victim. A moment she paused, glaring upon 
her with eyes of fiercest hate as she stood there alone and 
defenseless. The next, she drew out the flashing stiletto, 
flung away the scabbard, and advanced with it in her hand 
and horrible words upon her lips. 

“ I swore by the Lord who made me I would murder 
you if you ever came again to meet that man I False wife, 
accursed traitoress, meet your doom!” 

There was a wild shriek. In that fitful light she never 
doubted for a moment but that it was her husband, and 
the voice — Sybilla’s stage practice and talent for mimicry 
stood her in good stead here — the voice was surely his. 

“ Have mercy!” she cried, “lam innocent, Everard! 
Oh, for God’s sake, do not murder me!” 

“ Wretch — traitoress — die! You are not fit to pollute the 
earth longer! Go to your grave with my hate and my 
curse!” 


302 THE bjlronet’s bride. 

With a sudden paroxysm of mad fury the dagger was 
lifted — one fierce hand gripped Harrietts throat. A choking 
shriek^ — the dagger fell — a gurgling cry drowned in her 
throat — a fierce spurt of hot blood — a reel backward and a 
heavy fall over the low iron railing — down, down on the 
black shore beneath— and the pallid moonlight gleaming 
above shone on one figure standing on the stone terrace, 
alone, with a dagger dripping blood in its hand. 

She did not fly; it had all been too premeditated for that. 
She leaned over the rail. Down below— far down — she 
could see a slender figure, with long hair blowing in the 
blasts lying awfully still on the sands. Not five feet oQ 
the great waves washed, rising, steadily rising. In five 
minutes more they would wash the feet of the terrace — that 
slender figure would lie there no more. 

“ The fall alone would have killed her,^^ the female 
fiend thought, glancing along the height. “ Before I am 
half-way back to the house those white-capped waves will 
be her shroud.^’ 

She wrapped her cloak around her and fled away — back, 
swift as the wind, into the house, up the stairs. Safe in her 
own room, she tore off her disguise. The cloak and the 
trousers were horribly spotted with blood. She made all 
into one compact package, rolled up the dagger in the 
bundle, stole back to the baronet’s, dressing-room and list- 
ened, and peeped' through the key-hole. He was not 
there; the room was empty. She went in, thrust the 
bundle out of sight in the remotest corner of the wardrobe, 
and hastened back to her chamber. Her letter still lay 
where she had left it. The baronet had not yet returned. 

In her own room Miss Silver secured the door upon the 
inside, according to custom, donned her night-dress, and 
went to bed — went to bed, but not to sleep — to watch and 
wait. 

* sis ^ 

The mess dinner was a very tedious affair to one guest 
at least. Major Morrell and the officers told good stories 
and sung doubtful songs, and passed the wine and grew 
hilarious; but Sir Everard Kingsland chafed horribly under 
it all, and longed for the hour of his release. 

A dull, aching torture lay at his heart; a chill presenti- 
ment of evil had been with him all day; the tortures of love 
and rage and jealousy had lashed him nearly into madness. 


THE BAKOHET^S BRIDE. 


203 


Sometimes love carried all before him, and he would 
start up to rush to the side of the wife he loved, to clasp 
her to his heart, and defy earth and Hades to part them. 
Sometimes anger held the day, and he would pace up and 
down like a madman, raging at her, at himself, at Parma- 
lee, at all the world. Sometimes it was the wild beast, 
jealousy, and he would fling himself .face downward on the 
sofa, writhing in the unutterable torture of that mental 
agony. 

He was haggard and worn and wild, and his friends 
stared at him and shrugged their shoulders, and smiled sig- 
nificantly at this outward evidence of post-nuptial bliss. 

It was almost midnight when the young baronet mounted 
Sir Galahad and rode home. The trees tossed in the stormy 
moonlight, jagged clouds rent their way through the low- 
ering sky, the night wind pierced to the bone. Kingsland 
Court lay dark and still under the frowning night sky. 
He glanced up at the window of his wife^s chamber. A 
light burned there. A longing, wistful look filled his 
blue eyes, his arms stretched out involuntarily, his heart 
gave a great plunge, as though it would break away and 
fly to its idol. 

“ My darling !'' he murmured, passionately — “ my dar- 
ling, my life, my love, my wife! Oh, my God to think I 
should love her, wildly, madly still, believing her — know- 
ing her to be falser^ 

He went up to his dressing-room, his heart full to burst- 
ing. A mad, insane longing to go to her, to fold her to 
his breast, to forgive her all, to take her, guilty or inno- 
cent, and let pride and honor go to the winds, was upon 
him. He loved her so intensely, so passionately, that life 
without her, apart from her, was hourly increasing torture. 

The sight of a folded note lying on the table alone ar- 
rested his excited steps. He took it up, looked at the 
strange superscription, tore it open, ran over its diabolical 
contents, and reeled as if struck a blow. 

“ Great Heaven! it is not true! it can not be true! it is 
a vile, accursed slander! My wife meet this man alone, 
and at midnight, in that forsaken spot! Oh, it is impos- 
sible! May curses light upon the slanderous coward who 
dared to write this infernal lie!'^ 

He flung it, in a paroxysm of mad fury, into the fire. 


204 


THE BARONET^ S BRIDE. 


A flash of flame, and Sybilla Silver’s artfully written note 
was forever gone. He started up in white fury. 

“ I will go to her room; I will see for myself! I will 
find her safely asleep, I know!” 

But a horrible misgiving filled him, even while he ut- 
tered the brave words. He dashed out of his room and 
into his wife’s. It was deserted. He entered the bed- 
room. She was not there; tfle bed had not been slept in. 
He passed to her boudoir; that, too, was vacant. 

Sir Everard seized the bell-rope and rang a peal that 
resounded with unearthly echoes through the sleeping 
house. Five minutes of mad impatience — ten; then 
Olaudine, scared and shivering, appeared, sac denuit 
and in her bare feet. 

“ Where is your mistress?” 

The unexpected sight of her master — his white, wild 
face and hoarse question— made Olaudine recoil with a 
shriek. 

“ Mon Dieu ! how should I know? Is not my lady in 
bed?” 

“ No; her bed has not been slept in to-night. She is in 
none of her rooms. When did you see her last?” 

“ About ten o’clock. She dismissed me for the night; 
she said she would undress herself.” 

“ Where is Miss SUver?” 

“ In bed, I think, monsieur.^’ 

“ Go to her — tell her 1 want to see her at once. Lose 
no time.” 

’ Olaudine disappeared. Miss Silver was so very soundly 
asleep that it required five minutes rapping to rouse her. 
Once aroused, however, she threw on a dressing-gown, 
thrust her feet into slippers, and appeared before the bar- 
onet, with a pale, anxious, inquiring face. 

“ Where is my wife? Where is Lady Kingsland?” 

“ Good Heaven! is she not here?” 

“ No. You know where she is! Tell nie, I command 
you!” 

Sybilla Silver covered her face with both hands, and 
cowered before him with every sign of guilt. 

“ Spare me!” she cried, faintly. “ I dare not tell you!” 

He made one stride forward, caught her by the arm, his 
eyes glaring like the eyes of a tiger. Neither of them 
heeded the wondering Olaudine. 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 205 

“ Speak!” he thundered; “ or by t)ie Heaven above us, 
I’ll tear it from your throat! Is she^tvith him?” 

“ She is,” cowering, shrinking, trembling. 

There was an awful pause. 

“Where?” 

“ On the stone terrace.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ He returned this afternoon; he sent for me; he told 
me to tell her to meet him there to-night, about midnight. 
She did not think you would return before two or three — 
Oh, for pity’s sake — ” 

He thrust her from him with a force that sent her reel- 
ing against the wall. 

“ I’ll have their hearts’ blood!” he thundered, with an 
awful oath. 

The horrible voice, the horrible oath, was like nothing 
earthly. The two women cowered down, too intensely 
frightened even to scream. One other listener recoiled in 
wordless horror. It was Edwards, the valet. 

The madman, goaded to insane fury, had rushed out of 
the hall — out of the house. The trio looked at each other 
with bloodless faces and dilated eyes of terror. 

Edwards was the first to find his paralyzed tongue: 

“ May the Lord have mercy upon us! There’ll be mur- 
der done this night!” 

The two women never spoke. Huddled together, they 
clung to Edwards, as women do cling to men in their hour 
of fear. 

Half an hour passed; they never moved nor stirred. 
They crouched and waited. 

Ten minutes more, and Sir Everard dashed in among 
them as he had dashed out. 

“ It is false!” he shouted — “ a false, devilish slander! 
She is not there!” 

A shriek from Claudine — a wild, wild shriek. With 
bloodless cheek and starting eyes, she was pointing to the 
baronet’s hands. 

All looked and echoed that horror-struck cry. They 
were literally dripping blood! 


206 


THE BARON'ET'S BRIDE. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

BRANDED. • 

A BLANK, dreadful pause followed. They looked at 
him, at one another, in white, frozen horror, and then re- 
coiled. 

The baronet lifted his hands to the light, and gazed at 
their crimson hue with wild, dilated eyes and ghastly face. 

“ Blood he said, in an awful whisper — “ blood! Good 
God, it is hers! She is murdered !^^ 

The three listeners recoiled still further, paralyzed at the 
sight, at the words, at the awful thought that a murderer, 
red-handed, stood before them. 

The young husband heeded them not. In the flash of 
an eye he was galvanized into new life. 

A horrible deed has been done this night !^^ he cried, 
in a voice that rang down the long hall like a bugle blast. 

A murder has been committed! Rouse the house, fetch 
lights, and follow me!^^ ^ 

Edwards rose up, trembling in every limb. 

“ Quick !^^ his master thundered. “ Is this a time to 
stand agape? Sybilla, sound the alarm! Let all rise and 
join in the search. 

In a moment all was confusion. Claudine, of a highly 
excitable temperament, no sooner recovered from her stupor 
of dismay, than, with a piercing shriek, she fainted and 
tumbled over in a heap. 

But no one heeded her. Bells rangj lights flashed, serv- 
ants, white and wild, rushed to and fro, and over all the 
voice of the master rang, giving his orders. 

In this supreme moment he was himself again, his face 
like the face of a dead man, but his voice clear and ring- 
ing in stern command. 

“ Lights, lights !^^ he shouted. “ Men, why do you 
linger and stare? Lights! and follow me to the stone ter- 
race. 

He led the way. There was a general rush from the 
house. The men bore lanterns; the women clung to the 
men, terror and curiosity struggling, but curiosity getting 
the better of it. In dead silence all made their way to the 
stone terrace — all but one. 


THE EAKONET^S BRIDE. 


207 


Sybilla Silver saw them depart, stood a moment, irreso- 
lute, then turned and sped away to Sic Everard's dressing- 
room. She drew the compact bundle of clothes from their 
corner, removed the dagger, tied up the bundle again with 
the weight inside, and hurriedly left the house. 

“ These blood-stained garments are not needed to fix the 
guilt upon him,^^ she said to herself ; “ that is done already. 
The appearance of these would only create confusion and 
perplexity — perhaps help his cause. I’ll destroy these and 
fling away the dagger in the wood. They’ll be sure to find 
it in a day or two. They will make such a search that if a 
needle were lost it would be found.” 

There was an old sunken well, half filled with slimy, 
green water, mud, and filth, in a remote end of the plan- 
tation. Thither, unobserved, Sybilla made her way in the 
ghostly moonlight and flung her blood-stained bundle into 
its vile, poisonous depths. 

“ Lie there!” she muttered. “ You have done your 
work, and I fling you away, as 1 fling away all my tools 
at my pleasure. There, in the green muck and slimy filth, 
you will tell no tales.” 

She hurried away and struck into a path leading to the 
stone terrace. She could see the lanterns in the distance 
flashing like fire-fly sparks; she could hear the clear voice 
of Sir Everard Kingsland commanding. All at once the 
twinkling lights were still ; there was a deep exclamation in 
the baronet’s voice, a wild chorus of feminine screams, 
then blank silence. 

Sjbilla Silver threw the dagger, with a quick, fierce gest- 
ure, into the wood, and sprung in among them with glis- 
tening, greedy black eyes. They stood in a semicircle, in 
horror-struck silence, on the terrace. The light of half a 
dozen lanterns streamed redly on the stone flooring, but 
redder than that lurid light, a great pool of blood lay gory 
before them. The iron railing, painted creamy white, was 
all clotted with jets of blood, and, clinging to a projecting 
knob, something fluttered in the bleak blast, but they did 
not see it. All eyes were riveted on the awful sight before 
them — every tongue was paralyzed. Over all the strug- 
gling moon tore through ragged black clouds, and the spray 
of the angry waves leaped up in their very faces. Ed- 
wards, the valet, was the first to break the dreadful silence. 

“ My masterl” he cried, shrilly; “ he will fall!” 


208 THE baronet's bride. / 

He dropped his lantern and sprung forward just in time 
and no more. The young baronet reeled and fell hpavily 
backward. The sight of that blood — the life-blood bf his 
bride — seemed to freeze the very heart in his body. With 
a low moan he lay in his servant's arms like a dead, man. 

“ He has fainted," said the voice of Sybilla Silver. 
“ Lift him up and carry him to the house." 

“ Wait!" cried some one. “ What is this?" 

He tore the fluttering garment off the projection and 
held it up to the light. 

“ My lady's Injy scarf I" 

No one knew who spoke— all recognized it. It was a 
little Cashmere shawl Lady Kingsland often wore. An- 
other thrilling silence followed; then — 

“ The Lord be merciful!' ' gasped a house-maid. “ She's 
been murdered, and we in our beds!" 

Sybilla Silver, leaning lightly against the railing, turned 
authoritatively to Edwards: 

“ Take your master to his room, Edwards. It is no use 
of lingering here now; we must wait until morning. Some 
awful deed has been done, but it may not be my lady mur- 
dered." 

“ How comes her shawl thesre, then?" asked the old 
butler. “Why can't she be found in the house?" 

“ I don't know. It is frightfully mysterious, but noth- 
ing more can be done to-night." 

“ Can't there?" said the butler, who didn't like the young 
lady with the black eyes. “ Jackson and Fletcher will go 
to the village and get the police and search every inch of 
the park before daylight. The murderer can't be far 
away." 

Miss Silver bent a little over the rail to hide a sinister 
smile of derision. The spray dashed in her face — the 
waves beat half-way up the stone breast-work. 

“ Probably not, Mr. Norris. Do as you please about 
the police, only if you ever wish your master to recover 
from that death-like swoon, you will carry him at once to 
the house and apply restoratives. " 

She turned away with her loftiest air of hauteur, and 
Miss Silver had always been haughty t;o the servants. 
More than one dark glance followed her now. 

“ You're a h^rd one, you are, if there ever was a hard 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 209 

one!" said the butler.. “ There's been no luck in the house 
since you first set foot in it." v 

“ She always hated my lady/’ chimed in a female. 
“ It's my opinion she'll be more glad than sorry if she is 
made away with. She wanted Sir Everard for herself." 

" Hold your tongue, Susan!" angrily cried Edwards. 
‘‘ You daren't call your soul your 'own if Miss Silver was 
listening. Bear a hand here, you fellers, and help me 
fetch Sir Heverard to the house." 

They bore the insensible man to the house, to his room, 
where Edwards applied himself to his recovery. Sybilla 
aided him silently, skillfully. Meantime, the two gigantic 
footmen were galloping like mad to the village to rouse 
the stagnant authorities with their awful news. And the 
servants remained huddled together, whispering in affright ; 
then, in a body, proceeded to search the house from attic 
to cellar. * 

“ My lady may be somewhere in the house," somebody 
had suggested. “Who knows? Let us try." 

So they tried, and utterly failed, of course.' 

Morning came at last. To the household at Kingsland 
that night of horror seemed a century long. Dull and 
dreary it came, drenched in rain, the wind wailing deso- 
lately over the dark, complaining sea. All was confusion, 
not only at the Court, but throughout the whole village. 
The terrible news had flown like wild-fire, electrifying all. 
People stood and stared at each other in mute horror. 
My lady was murdered! Who had done the deed? 

Very early in to wet apd dismal morning. Miss Silver, 
braving the elements, wended her way to the Blue Bell Inn. 

. Where was Mr. Farm alee? Gone, the landlady said, 
and gone for good, nobody knew where. 

Sybilla stood and stared at her incredulously. Gone, 
and without a word to her— gone without seeing the muf- 
dered woman! What did it mean? 

“ Are you sure he has really gone?" she asked. “ And 
how did he go?" , 

“ Sure as sure!" was the landlady's response; “ which 
he paid his bill to the last farthing, like a gentleman. And 
as for how he went, I am sure I can't say, not being took 
in his confidence; but the elderly party, she went with him, 
and it was late last evening. " 

Miss Silver was nonplused, perplexed, bewildered, and 


210 


THE BAEONET’S BRIDE. 


very anxious. What did Mr. Parmalee mean? Where had 
he gone? He might spoil all yet. She had come to see 
him, and accuse him of the murder — to frighten him, and 
make him fly the village. Circumstances were strongly 
against him — his knowledge of her secret; his nocturnal 
appointment; her disappearance. Sybil! a did not doubt 
but that he would consider discretion the better part of 
valor, and fly. 

She went back to the house, intensely perplexed. There 
the confusion was at its height. The scabbard had been 
found near the terrace, with the baronet’s initials thereon. 

Men looked into each other’s blank faces, afraid to speak 
the frightful thoughts that filled their minds. 

And in his room Sir Everard lay in a deep stupor — it 
was not sleep. Sybilla, upon the the first faint signs of 
consciousness, had administered a powerful opiate. 

“ He must sleep*,” she said, resolutely, to Edwards. 
“ It may save his life and his reason. He is utterly worn 
out, and every nerve in his body is strung to its utmost 
tension. Let him sleep, poor fellow!” 

Did one pang of human pity, of womanly compassion, 
pierce that flinty heart for ,an instant as she gazed upon 
laer work? 

He lay before her so death-like, so ghastly, so haggard, 
that the stoniest enemy might have relented — the pallid 
shadow of the handsome, happy bridegroom of two short 
months ago. 

“ I have kept my oath,” she thought. “ I have wreaked 
the vengeance I have sworn. If 1 left him forever now, 
the mams of Zenith the gypsy might rest appeased. But 
the astrologer’s prediction — ah! the work must go on to 
the appalling end.” 

She hardened her heart resolutely, and went away to 
mingle with the agitated household, and assist in the 
search. 

Early in the afternoon arrived Lady Kingsland and Mil- 
dred, in a frightful state of excitement and horror. Har- 
riet murdered! The tragic story had been whispered, 
through The Grange until it reached their ears, thrilling 
them to the core of their hearts with terror. 

Miss Silver met them — calm, grave, inscrutable. 

“lam afraid it is true,” she said, “ awfully incredible 


THE BARbliTET’S BRIDE. 211 

as it seems. Sir IJverard fainted stone-dead, my lady, at 
sight of the blood upon the terrace/^ ^ 

She shuddered as she spoke, and Lady Kingsland cov- 
ered her face in horror. 

“ Great heavens! it is horrible! That unfortunate girl. 
And my son, Sybilla, where is he?^^ 

“ Asleep in his room, my lady. 1 administered an 
opiate. His very life, I think, depended on it. He will 
not awake for some hours. Do not disturb him. Will 
you come up to your old rooms and remove your things?’^ 

They followed her. They had come to stay until the un- 
endurable suspense was ended — to take care of the son and 
brother. 

Lady Kingsland wrung her hands in a paroxysm of mor- 
tal anguish in the solitude of her own room. 

“Oh, my God!^' she cried, “have mercy and spare! 
My son, my son, my son! Would God I might die to save 
you from the worse horrors to come!^’ 

All that day, all the next, and the next, and the next, 
the fruitless search for the murdered bride was made. All 
in vain ; not the faintest trace was to be obtained. 

Sir Everard, rousing himself from his stupor of despair, 
threw himself body and soul into the search, with a fierce 
energy that perhaps saved him from going mad with hor- 
ror and misery and remorse. 

Mr. Parmalee was searched for high and low. Immense 
rewards were offered for the slightest trace of him — im- 
mense rewards were offered for the body of the murdered 
woman. In vain, in vain! 

Had the earth opened and swallowed them up, Mr. 
Parmalee and the baronet^s lo^t bride could not niore com- 
pletely have vanished. 

And, meanwhile, dark, ominous whispers rose and cir- 
culated from mouth to mouth, by whom originated no one 
knew. Sir Everard^s frantic jealousy of Mr. Parmalee, his 
onslaught in the picture-gallery, the threats he had used 
again and again, overheard by so many, the oath he had 
sworn to take her life if she ever met the American artist 
again, his ominous conduct that night, his rushing like a 
madman to the place of tryst, his returning covered with 
blood— white, wild, like one insane. Then the finding of 
the scabbard, marked with his initials, and his own words: 
“ Blood! Good God! it is hers! She is murdered!’^ 


212 


THE BAROKET'S BRIDE. 


The whispers rose and grew louder and louder; men 
looked in dark suspicion upon the young lord of Kings- 
land, and shrunk from him palpably. But as yet no one 
was found to openly accuse him. 

Toward the close of the second week^ a body was washed 
ashore, some ’miles down the coast, and the authorities 
there signified to the authorities of Worrel that the corpse 
might be the missing lady. 

Sir Everard, his mother, and Miss Silver went at once. 
But the sight was too horrible to be twice looked at. Every 
garment had been washed away, and the face and head 
were so mutilated that identification by means of the 
features was impossible. 

But the height corresponded, and so did the long waves 
of flowing hair, and Sybilla Silver, the only one with nerve 
enough to glance again, pronounced it emphatically to be 
the body of Harriet, Lady Kingsland. 

There was to be a verdict, and the trio remained; and 
before it commenced, the celebrated detective from Scot- 
land Yard, employed from the first by Sir Everard, ap- 
peared upon the scene with crushing news. He held up a 
blood-stained dagger, of curious make and workmanship, 
before the eye of the baronet. 

“ Do you know this little weapon. Sir Everard?’^ 

Sir Everard looked at it and recognized it at once. 

“ It is mine,^^ he replied. “ I purchased it last year in 
Paris. My initials are upon it.^’ 

“ So 1 see,^^ was the dry response. 

“ How comes it here? Where did you find it?’^ 

The detective eyed him narrowly, almost amazed at his 
coolness. 

“ I found it in a very queer place. Sir Everard— lodged 
in the branches of an elm-tree, not far from the stone ter- 
race. It^s a miracle it was ever found. I think this little 
weapon did the deed. I’ll go and have a look at the body. 

He went. Yes, there in the region of the heart was a 
gaping wound. But the sea had opened it, and the flesh 
was so gnawed away that it seemed impossible to tell 
whether the death-blow had been given by that slender 
knife. 

The inquest came on; the facts came out — mysteriously 
whispered before, spoken aloud now. And for the first 


THE BARONET^S BRIBE. 313 

time the truth da\vi)ed on the stunned baronet — he was 
suspected of the murder of the wife he Jpved! 

The revolting atrocity, the unnatural horror of the 
charge, nerved him as nothing else could have done. His 
pale, proud face grew rigid as stone; his blue eyes flashed 
scornful defiance; his head reared itself haughtily aloft. 
How dare they accuse him of so monstrous a crime? 

But the circumstantial evidence was crushing. Sybilla 
Silver^s evidence alone would have damned him. 

She gave it with evident reluctance; but give it she did 
with frightful force, and the bereaved young husband stood 
stunned at the terrible strength of the case she made out. 

Everything told against him. His very eagerness to find 
the murderer seemed but throwing dust in their eyes. Not 
a doubt lingered in the minds of the coroner or his jury, 
and before sunset that day Sir Everard Kingsland was on 
his way to Worrel Jail to stand his trial at the coming 
assizes for the willful murder of Harriet, his wife, 


CHAPTER XXX. 

MISS SILVER 0]S" OATH. 

The day of trial came. Long, miserable weeks of wait- 
ing — weeks of anguish and remorse and despair had gone 
before, and Sir Everard Kingsland emerged from his cell 
to take his place in the criminal dock and be tried for his 
life for the greatest crime man can commit. 

What he had endured in those weeks of anguish God and 
himself only knew. Outwardly those who saw him beheld 
a rigid, death-like face, with lines plowed deep, that half a 
century of happiness could never remove. 

But he came of a proud and daring race, and his hand- 
some head reared itself aloft, and his great, flashing blue 
eyes looked straight into the eyes of his fellow-men, as 
gmilt never looked in this world. 

The court-house was crowded to suffocation — there was 
not even standing room. The long gallery was one living 
semicircle of eyes; ladies, in gleaming silks and fluttering 
plumes, thronged as to the opera, and slender throats Were 
craned, and bright eyes glanced eagerly to catch one fleet- 
ing glimpse of the pale prisoner — a baronet who had mur- 
dered his bride before the honey-moon was well over. 


214 


THE . baronet’s BRIDE. 


And away in Kingslaiid Court two ghastly white women 
knelt in agonized supplication for the son and brother 
they loved. 

The case was opened in a long and eloquent speech by 
the counsel for the crown, setting forth the enormity of 
the crime, citing a hundred incidents of the horrible and 
unnatural deeds jealousy had made men commit, from the 
days of the first murderer. 

His address was listened to in profoundest silence. The 
charge he made out was a terribly strong one, and when 
he sat down and the first witness was called the hearts of 
Sir Everard Kingsland’s friends sunk like' lead. 

He pleaded “ Not guilty!” with an eye that fiashed and 
a voice which rang, and a look in his pale, proud face that 
no murderer’s face ever wore on this earth, and with those 
two words he had carried conviction to many a doubter. 

But men wavered like reeds. His word was poor and 
weak against the thrilling eloquence of one of the first 
criminal lawyers in the realm. 

“ Call Sybilla Silver.” 

All in black — in trailing crape and sables, tall, stately, 
and dignified as a youn'g duchess— Sybilla Silver obeyed 
the call. 

She was deeply veiled at first, and when she threw back 
the heavy' black veil, and the dark, bright, beautiful face 
looked full at judge and jury, a low murmur thrilled 
through the throng. 

Those who saw her for the first time stared in wonder 
and admiration at the tall young woman in black, with the 
face and air of an Indian queen, and those to whom she 
was known thought that Miss Silver had never, since they 
saw her first, looked half as handsome as she did this day. 

Her brilliant bloom of color was gone; she was interest- 
ingly pale, and her great black eyes were unnaturally deep 
and mournful. 

“ Your name is Sybilla Silver, and you reside at Kings- 
land Court. May we ask in what character — as friend or 
domestic?” 

“As both. Sir Everard Kingsland has been my friend 
and benefactor from the first. 1 have been treated as a 
confidential friend both by him and his mother.” 

“ By the deceased Lady Kingsland also, I conclude?” 

“ I was in the late Lady Kingsland ’s confidence— yes.” 


THE feAEONET^S BEIDE. 215 

You wfere the last who saw her alivB on the night of 
March tenth — the night of the murder?'^ 

“Iwas/^ 

“ Where did you part from her?’^ 

“ At her own chamber door. We bade each other good- 
night, and I retired to rest immediately.^’ 

“ What hour was that?’^ 

About ten minutes before eleven.” 

“ What communication were you making to Lady Kings- 
land at that hour?” 

“ I came to tell her the household had all retired — that 
she could quit the house unobserved whenever she chose. ” 

“ You knew, then, that she had an assignation for that 
night?” 

‘ ‘ 1 did. It was I who brought her the message. She 
was to meet Mr. Parmalee at midnight, on the stone ter- 
race.” 

“ Who was this Mr. Parmalee?” 

“ An American gentleman — a traveling photographic 
artist, between whom and my lady a secret existed.” 

“ A secret unknown to her husband?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And this secret was the cause of their mysterious mid- 
night meeting?” 

“ It was. Mr. Parmalee dare not come to the house. 
Sir Everard had driven him forth with blows and abuse, 
and forbidden him to enter the grounds. My lady knew 
this, and was forced to meet him by stealth.” 

“ Where was Sir Everard on this night?” 

“ At a military dinnbr given by Major Morrell, here in 
Worrel.” 

“ What time did he return to Kingsland Court?” 

“At half past eleven, as nearly as I can judge. I did 
not see him for some ten or fifteen minutes after; then 
Claudine, my lady’s maid, came and aroused me — said Sir 
Everard was in my lady’s dressing-room and wished to see 
me at once.” 

“You went?” 

“ I went immediately. I found Sir Everard in a state 
of passionate fury no words can describe. By some means 
he had learned of the assignation; through an anonymous 
note left upon his dressing-table, he said.” 

“ Did you see this note?” 


216 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


“ I did not. He had none in his hand, nor have I seen 
any since. ” 

“ What did the prisoner say to you?” 

“ He asked me where was his wife — he insisted that 1 
knew. He demanded an answer in such a way I dared not 
disobey.” 

“ You told him?” 

“ I did. ‘ Is she with him /’ he said, grasping my arm, 
and I answered, ‘ Yes.’ ” 

“ And then?” 

“ He asked me, ‘ Where?’ and I told him; and he flung 
me from him, like a madman, and rushed out of the house, 
swearing, in an awful voice, ‘ I’ll have thmr hearts’ 
blood!’” 

“Was it the first time you ever heard him threaten his 
wife’s life?” 

“No; the second. Once before I heard him say to her, 
at the close of a dreadful quarrel, ‘ If ever you meet that 
man again. I’ll murder you, by the living Lord!’ ” 

“ What was the cause of the quarrel?” 

“ She had met Mr. Parmalee, by night and by stealth, 
in Sir Everard’s absence, ju the Beech Walk.” 

“ And he discovered it?” 

“He did. Edwards, his valet, had gone out with me 
to look for some article I had lost, and by chance we came 
upon them. We saw her give him money; we saw her 
dreadfully frightened; and vmen Edwards met his master 
again his face betrayed him — we had to tell him all.” 

Did any one hear the prisoner use those words, ‘ I’ll 
have their hearts’ blood!’ on the nfght of the murder, but 
yourself!^” 

“ Yes; Edwards, his valet, and Olaudine, the lady’s- 
maid. We crouched together in the hall, frightened 
almost to death. ” 

“ When did the prisoner reappear?” 

“ In little over half an hour. He rushed in in the same 
wild way he had rushed out — like a man gone mad.” 

“ What did he say?” 

“He shouted, ‘It is false — a false, devilish slander! 
She is not there!’ ” 

“ Well- and then?” 

“ And then Olaudine shrieked aloud and pointed to his 
hands. They were dripping with blood!” 


THE BAROKET'S BRIDE. 


217 


“ Did he attempt any explanation?'^ 

“ Not then. His first words were, as if he spoke in 
spite of himself: ‘ Blood! blood! Good God, it is hers! 
She is murdered!' " 

“ You say he offered no explanation then. Did he after- 
ward?" 

“ 1 believe so. Not to me, but to others. He said his 
foot slipped on the stone terrace, and his hand splashed in 
a pool of something — his wife's blood." 

“ Can you relate what followed?" 

“ There was the wildest confusion. Olaudine fainted. 
Sir Everard shouted for lights and men. ‘ There has been 
a horrible murder done,' he said. ‘ Fetch lights and fol- 
low me!' and then we all rushed to the stone terrace. " 

“ And there you saw — what?" 

“ Nothing but blood. It was stained and clotted with 
blood everywhere; and so was the railing, as though a 
bleeding body had been cast over into the sea. On a pro- 
jecting spike, as though torn off in the fall, we found my 
lady's India scarf." 

“You think, then, he cast the body over after the deed 
was done?" 

“lam morally certain he did. Ther^e was no other way 
of disposing of it. The tide was at flood, the current 
strong, and it was swept away at once." 

“ What was the prisoner's conduct on the terrace?" 

“ He fainted stone-dead before he was there ’five min- 
utes. They had to carry him lifeless to the house." 

“ Was it not on that occasion the scabbard marked with 
his initials was discovered?" 

“ It was. One of the men. picked it up. The dagger 
hidden in the elm-tree was found by the detective later." 

“ You recognized them both? You had seen them be- 
fore in the possession of t^e prisoner?" 

“ Often. He brought the dagger from Paris. It used 
to lie on his dressing-table." 

“ Where he said he found the anonymous note?" 

“Yes." 

“ Now, Miss Silver," said the prosecuting attorney, 
“ from what you said at the inquest and from what you 
have let drop to-day, I infer that my lady's secret was no 
secret to you. Am I right?" 


218 


THE BAEOKET’S BRIDE. 


There was a momentary hesitation — a rising flush, a 
drooping of the brilliant eyes, then Miss Silver replied: 

“ xes. ’’ 

“ How did you learn it?’^ 

“ Mr. Parmalee himself told me. ^' 

“ You were Mr. Parmalee ’s intimate friend, then, it ap- 
pears?’^ 

“ Y-e-e-s.^' 

“ Was he only a friend? He was a young man, and an 
-unmarried one, as 1 am giVen to understand, and you. 
Miss Silver, are — pardon my boldness— a very handsome 
young lady.^^ 

Miss Silver’s handsome face drooped lower. She made 
no reply. 

“Answer, if you please,” blandly insinuated the law- 
yer. “You have given your evidence hitherto with most 
unfeminine and admirable straightforwardness. Don’t let 
us have a hitch now. Was this Mr. Parmalee a suitor of 
yours?” 

“He was.” 

“ An accepted one, I take it?” 

“Y-ece-s.” 

“ And you know nothing now of his whereabouts? That 
is strange. ” 

“It is strange, but no less true than strange. I have 
never seen or heard of Mr. Parmalee since the afternoon 
preceding that fatal night.” 

“ How did you see him then?” 

“ He bad been up to London for a couple of days on 
business connected with my lady; he had returned that 
afternoon with another person; he sent for me to inform 
my lady. I met and spoke to him on the street, just be- 
yond the Blue Bell Inn.” 

“ What had he to say to you?^ 

“ Very little. He told me to tell my lady to meet him 
precisely at midnight, on the stone terrace. Before mid- 
night the murder was done. What became of him, why 
he did not keep his appointment, 1 do not know. He left 
the inn very late, paid his .score, and has never been seen 
or heard of since. ” 

“ Had he any interest in Lady Kingsland’s death?” 

“ On the contrary, all his interest lay in her remaining 
alive. While she lived, he held a secret which she intended 


N' 


THE BAROIs^ET’S BRIDE. 219 

to pay him well to keep. Her death blights all his pecuni- 
ary prospects, and Mr. Parmalee loved money.^^ 

Miss Silver, who was the female who accompanied Mr. 
Parmalee from London, and who quitted the Blue Bell Inn 
with him late on the night of the tenth?” 

Again Sybilla hesitated, looked down, and seemed con- 
fused. 

“ It is not necessary, is it?” said she, pleadingly. “ I 
had rather not tell. It — it is connected with the secret, 
and I am bound by a promise — ” 

“ Which I think we must persuade you to break,” in- 
terrupted the debonair attorney. “ I think this secret will 
throw a light on the matter, and we must have it. Ex- 
treme cases require extreme measures-, my dear young 
lady. Throw aside your honorable scruples, break your 
promise, and tell us this secret which has caused a mur- 
der.” 

Sybilla Silver looked from judge to jury, from counsel 
to counsel, and clasped her hands. 

“ DonT ask me!” she cried — “ oh, pray, don^t ask me 
to tell this!” 

“ But we must — it is essential — we must have it. Miss 
Silver. Come, take courage. It can do no harm now, 
you know—the poor lady is dead. And first — to plunge 
into the heart of it at once — tell us who was the mys- 
terious lady with Mr. Parmalee?” 

The hour of Sybilla’s triumph had come. She lifted her 
black eyes, glittering with livid flame, and shot a quick, 
sidelong glance at the prisoner. Awfully white, awfully 
calm, he sat like a man of stone, awaiting to hear what 
would cost him his life. * 

“ Who was she?” the lawyer repeated. 

Sybilla turned toward hfm and answered, in a voice 
plainly audible the length and breadth of the long room: 

“ She called .herself Mrs. Denover. Mr. Parmalee called 
her his sister. Both were false. She was Captain Harold 
Hunsden-^s divorced wife. Lady Kingsland's mother, and a 
lost, degraded outcast!” 


m 


the ' BAROIs ET’S bride. 


CHAPTEK XXXI. 

FOUND GUILTY. 

There was the silence of death. Men looked blankly 
in each other^s faces, then at the prisoner. With an 
awfully corpse-like face, and wild, dilated eyes, he sat 
staring at the witness— struck dumb. 

The silence was broken by the lawyer. Even he, for an 
instant, had sat petrified. 

“ This is a very extraordinary statement. Miss Silver,^^ 
he said. “ Are you quite certain of its truth? It is an 
understood thing that the late Captain Hunsden was a 
widower. 

“ He was nothing of the sort. It suited his purpose to 
be thought so. Captain Hunsden was a very proud man. 
It is scarcely likely he would announce his bitter shame to 
the world. 

“ And his daughter was cognizant of these facts?^^ 

“ Only from the night of her father’s death. On that 
night he revealed to her the truth, under a solemn oath of 
secrecy. Previous to that she had believed her mother 
dead. That death-bed oath was the cause of all the trouble 
between Sir Everard and his wife. Lady Kingsland would 
have died rather than break it. ” 

She glanced again — swift, keen, sidelong, a glance of 
diabolical triumph — at the prisoner. But he did not see it 
— he might have been stone-blind — he only heard the 
words — the words that seemed burning to the core of his 
heart. 

This, then, was the secret, and the wife he had loved aud 
doubted and scorned had been true to him as truth itself;' 
and now he knew her worth and purity and high honor 
when it was too late. 

How came Mr. Parmalee to be possessed of the secret? 
Was he a relative?” 

“ Eo. He learned the story by the merest accident 
He left Eew York for England in his professional capacity 
as photographic artist, on speculation. On board the 
steamer was a woman — a steerage passenger — poor, ill, 
friendless, and alone. He had a kindly heart, it appears, 
under his passion for money-making, and when this worn- 


THE BAKOHET^S BRIDE. 


221 


an — this Mrs. Denover — fell ill, he nursed her as a son 
might. ^ One night, <when she thought herself dying, she 
called him to her bedside and told him ker story. 

The dead silence of the crowded court-room seemed to 
deepen. You might have heard a pin drop. 

Clear and sweet Sybilla Silver^s voice rang from' end to 
end, each word cutting mercilessly through the unhapjiy 
prisoner's very soul. 

“ Her maiden name had been Maria Denover, and she 
was a native of New York City. At the age of eighteen 
an English officer met her while on a visit to Niagara, fell 
desperately in love with her, and married her out of hand. 

“ Even at that early ago she was utterly lost and aban- . 
doned; and she only married Captain Hunsden in a fit of 
mad desperation and rage because John Thorndyke, her 
lover, scornfully refused to make her his wife. 

“ Caj^ain Hunsden took her with him to Gibraltar, 
where his regiment was stationed, serenely unconscious of 
his terrible disgrace. One year after a daughter was born, 
but neither husband nor child could win this woman from 
the man she passionately loved, and who had wronged her 
beyond reparation. 

“ She urged her husband to take her back to New York 
to see her friends; she pleaded with a vehemence he could 
not resist, and in an evil hour he obeyed. 

“ Again she met her lover. Three weeks after the 
wronged husband and all the world knew the revolting 
story of her degradation. She had fled with Thorndyke. 

Sybilla paused to let her words take effect. Then she 
slowly went on: 

“ There was a divorce, of course the matter was hushed 
up as much as possible, for the abandoned woman’s friends 
were wealthy. Captain Hunsden went back to his regi- 
ment a disgraced and broken-hearted man. 

“ Two years after he sailed for England, but not to re- 
main. How he wandered over the world, his daughter ac- 
companying him, from that time until, nearly two years 
ago, he returned to Hunsden Hall, everyone knows. But 
during all that time he never heard one word of or from 
his lost wife. 

“ She remained with Thorndyke — half starved, brutally 
beaten, horribly ill-used— taunted from the first by him, 
and hated at the last. But she clung to him through all, 


222 THE bakonet’s bride. 

as women do cling; she had given up the whole world for 
his sake; she must bear his abuse to the end. And she 

did, heroically. 

He died— stabbed in a drunken brawl— died with her 
kneeling by his side, and his last word an oath. He died 
and was buried, and she was alone in the world— heart- 
broken, health-broken — as miserable a woman as the wide 
earth ever held. 

“ One wish alone lived and was strong within her — to 
look again upon her child before she died. She had no 
wish to speak to her, to reveal herself, only to look once 
more upon her face, then lie down by the road-side and 

die. 

“ She knew she was married and living here; Thorndyke 
had maliciously kept h.Qrau fait of her husband and child. 
She sold all she possessed but the rags upon her back, and 
took a steerage passage for England. 

“ That was the story she told Mr. Parmalee. ‘ You 
will go to Devonshire,' she said to him; ‘ you will see my 
child. Tell her I died humbly praying her forgiveness. 
She is rich; she will reward you.' 

“ Mr. Parmalee immediately made up his mind that this 
sick woman, who had a daughter the wife of a wealthy 
baronet, was a great deal too valuable, in a pecuniary 
light, to be allowed ‘ to go off the hooks,' as he expressed 
it, thus easily. . 

“ He pooh-poohed the notion of her dying, cheered her 
up, nursed her assiduously, and finally brought her around. 
He left her in London, posted down here, and remained 
here until the return of Sir Everard and my lady from 
their honey-moon trip. The day after he presented him- 
self to them — displayed his pictures, and among others 
showed my lady her mother's portrait, taken at the time 
of her' marriage. She recognized it at once — her father 
. had left her its counterpart on the night he diedi He 
knew her secret, and she had to meet him if he chose. He 
threatened to tell Sir Everard else, and the thought of her 
husband ever discovering her mother's shame was agony 
to her. She knew how proud he was, how proud his moth- 
er was, and she would have died to save him pain. And 
that is why she met Mr. Parmalee by night and by stealth 
— why she gave him money — why ali the horrors that have 
followed occurred." 


THE BAliONEX'S BRIDE. 


22S 


Once more the cruel, clear, unfaltering voice paused. A 
groan broke the silence — a groan of such unutterable an- 
guish and despair from the tortured husband that every 
heart thrilled to hear it. ' 

With that agonized groan, his face dropped in his hands, 
and he never raised it again. He heard no more — he sat 
bowed, paralyzed, crushed with misery and remorse. His 
wife — his lost wife — had been as pure and stainless as the 
angels, and he — oh, pitiful God! how merciless he had 
been I 

Sybilla Silver was dismissed; other witnesses were called. 
Edwards and Claudine were the- only ones examined that 
day, Sybilla had occupied the court so long. They cor- 
roborated all she had said. The prisoner was remanded, 
and the court adjourned. 

The night of agony which followed to the wretched pris- 
oner no words can ever tell. All he had suffered hitherto 
seemed as nothing. Men recoiled in horror at the sight of 
him next day; it was as if a galvanized corpse had entered 
the court-room. 

He sat in dumb misery, neither heeding nor hearing. 
The talk of witnesses and lawyers was as the empty babble 
of a brook. Only once was his attention dimly aroused to 
a sort^of wondering bewilderment. It was at the evidence 
of a boy — a ragged youth of some fifteen years, who gave 
his name as Bob Dawson, and his evidence with a very 
white and scared face. 

“ He had been out lata on that 'ere night;" he admitted 
the fact with grimy tears. “ Yes, if his worship must 
know, a- wirin' of rabbits, which he didn't catch none, so 
he 'oped their ludships wouldn't send him hup for it. It 
was between ten and eleven— couldn't be 'spected to tell 
to a second— that he was a-dodgin' round near the stone 
terrace. Then he sees a lady a-waitin', which the moon 
was shining on her face, and he knowed my lady herself. 
He dodged more than hever at the sight, and peeked round 
a tree. Just . then came along a tall gent in a cloak, like 
Sir Everard wears, and my lady screeches out at sight of 
him. Sir Everard, he spoke in a deep, 'orrid voice, and 
the words were so hawfnl, he— Bob Dawson— remembered 
them from that day^ to this. 

“ ‘ I swore by the Lord who made me I would murder 


224 : 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 

you if you ever met, that man again. False wife, accursed 
traitoress, meet your doom!’ 

“ And then my lady screeches out again and says to him 
—she says: 

“ ‘ Have mercy! 1 am innocent, Heverard! Oh, for 
GoJ’s sake, do not murder me!’ 

“And Sir fleverard, he says, fierce and ’orrid: 

“ ‘ Wretch, die! You are not fit to pollute the hearth! 
Go to your grave with my ’ate and my cuss!’ 

“And then,” cried Bob Dawson, trembling all over as 
he told it, “I see him lift that there knife, gentlemen, 
and stab her with all his might, and she fell back with a 
sort of groan, and he lifts her up and pitches of her over 
hinto the sea. And then he cuts, he does, and 1 — I was 
frightened most hawful, and 1 cut, too.” 

A murmur of horror ran through the court. No one 
doubted longer. 

“ Why did you not tell this before?” the judge asked, 
sternly. 

“ ’Cos I was scared — 1 was,” Bob replied, in tears. “ I 
didn’t know but that they might took and hang me for 
seeing it. I told mammy the other night, and mammy 
she 9 ame and told the gent there,” pointing one stubby 
index finger at the learned counsel for the crown, “ and 
he said I must come and tell it here; and that’s all I’ve 
got to tell, and I’m werry sorry as hever I seed it, and it’s 
all true, s’help me!” 

The lad was rigidly cross-examined, but he stuck to his 
statement with many tears and protestations. 

Sybilla Silver’s eyes fairly blazed with triumphant fire. 
Her master, the arch-fiend, seemed visibly coming to her 
aid; and the most miserable baronet pressed his hand to 
his throbbing head. 

“ Am I going mad?” he thought. “ Did 1 rearlly mur- 
der my wife?” 

There was the summing up of the evidence — one damn- 
ing mass against the prisoner. There was the judge’s 
charge to the jury. Sir Everard heard no words — saw 
nothing. He fell into a stunned stupor that was indeed 
like madness. 

The jury retired — vaguely he saw them go. They re- 
turned. AVas it minutes or hours they had been gone? 
His d ulled eyes looked at them expressionless. 


THE baronet's BRIDE. 


225 


“ How say you, gentlemen of the jury — guilty or not 
guilty?" 

“Guilty!" 

Amid dead silence the word fell. ' Jlvery heart thrilled 
with awe but one. The condemned man sat staring at 
^them with an awful, dull, glazed stare* 

The judge arose and put on his black cap, his face 
white, his lips trembling. He had known Sir Everard 
Kingsland from boyhood — a little curly-haired, blue-eyed, 
handsome boy. But those blue eyes looked at him now, 
seeing, yet sightless — the dulled ears not taking in the 
sense of a syllable. 

Only the last words seemed to strike him — to crash into 
his whirling brain with a noise like thunder. The long, 
pitying address was lost, but he heard those last words: 

“ And that there you be hanged by the neck until dead, 
and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul!" 

He sat down. The awful silence was something inde- 
scribable. One or two women in the gallery fainted, then 
the hush was broken in a blood-curdling manner. 

With the shriek of a madman, Sir Everard Kingsland 
threw up both arms and fell face forward. They raised 
"him up. Agonized nature had given way — he was writh-' 
ing in the horrors of an epileptic fit. 


CHAPTEK XXXII. 
sybilla's triumph. 

It was the night before the execution. In his feebly 
lighted cell the condemned man sat alone, trying to read 
by the palely glimmering lamp. ' The New Testament lay 
open before him, and on this, the last night of his life, he 
was reading the mournful story of Gethsemane and Cal- 
vary. On his pale, high-bred face sat a look of unutter- 
able calm, of unearthly peace. Earth and the things of 
the earth— love, ambition, splendor, and all the glories of 
the lower world— had rolled away, and eternity, mighty 
and inconceivable, was opening before him. On this last 
night heart and soul were at rest, and an infinite calm, that 
seemed not of this world, illumined every feature. 

Weeks had passed since the day when sentence of death 
had been pronounced upon him, and the condemned man 


226 THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 

had lain tossing and burning in the wild delirium o£ brain 
fever. Days and weeks he had lain hovering between life 
and death, nursed with sleepless care, as tenderly nour- 
ished as if a long life lay before him. 

Sybilla Silver had been his most sleepless, his most de- 
voted attendant. Her evidence had wrung his heart — had 
condemned hifn to the most shameful death man can die; 
but she had only told the truth, and truth is mighty and 
will prevail. So she came and nursed him now, forgetting 
to eat or sleep in her zeal and devotion, and finally wooed 
him back to life and reason, while those who loved him best 
prayed God, by night and by day, that he might die. 
Slowly but surely life returned, and he rose from his bed 
at last, the pallid shadow of his former self, to endure the 
extreme penalty of the law. 

But, while hovering in the “ Valley of the Shadow,^' 
death had lost all its terror for him — he rose a changed 
man. A zealous clergyman had sat daily by his bedside, 
and the light of this world wtod very dim as seen by the 
light of heaven. 

“ And she is there, he said, with his eyes fixed dream- 
ily on the one patch of blue May sky he could see between 
his prison bars — “ my wronged, my murdered, my beloved 
wifef Ah, yes, death is the highest boon the judges of 
this world can give me now!'^ 

And so the last night came. He sat alone. The jailer 
who was to share his cell on this last, awful vigil had been 
bribed to leave him by himself until the latest moment. 

“ Come in before midnight, he said, smiling slightly, 
“ and guard me while I sleep, if you wish. Until then, 
I should like to be left quite alone. 

And the man obeyed, awed unutterably by the sublime 
look of that marble face. 

“ He never did it,^' he said to his wife. “No murderer 
ever looked with such clear eyes and such a sweet smile as 
that. Sir Everard Kingsland is as hinnocent as a hangel, 
and there’ll be a legal murder done to-morrow. I wish 
it was that she-devil that swore his life away instead. I\I 
turn her off myself with the greatest pleasure. 

As if his thoughts had evoked her, a tall dark figure 
stood before him — Miss Sybilla Silver herself. 

“ Good Lord!^^ cried the jailer, aghast; “ whoM a- 
thought it? What do you want?’’ 


. THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 227 

“ To see the prisoner/^ responded the sweet voice of 
Sybilla. 

“ You can't see him, then," said the jailer, gruffly. 
“ He ain't going to see anybody this last night, ma'am." 

“Mr. Markham" — she came over and laid her velvet 
paw on his arm, and magnetized him with her big black 
eyes— ‘ ‘ think better of it. It is his last night. His mother 
lies on the point of death. I come here with a last sacred 
message from a dying mother to a dying son. You have 
an aged mother yourself, Mr. Markham. Ah! think 
again, and don't be hard upon us." 

A sovereign slipped into his palm. Whether it was the 
delicious thrill of the gold, or the magic of that honeyed 
voice, or the mesmerism of those velvet-black eyes, or the 
siren spell of that beautiful face,.who can tell? But the 
stern warden knocked under at once. 

“ For only half an hour, then," he said; “ mind that. 
Come along!" 

The key clanked; the door swung back. The pale 
prisoner lifted his serene eyes; the tall, dark figure stepped 
in. 

“ Sybilla!" 

“ Yes, Sir Everard." 

The great door closed with a bang. 

“ Half an hour, mind," reiterated the jailer. 

The key turned; they were alone together within those 
massive walls. 

“ I thought we parted yesterday for the last time in 
this lower world," said the baronet, calmly. 

“ Did you? You were mistaken, then. We meet again 
and part again forever to-night, for the last time in this 
lower world) or that upper one either, in which you be- 
lieve, and which I know to be a very pretty little fable, 
made for priests to fool credulous cowards." 

She laughed a low, 'derisive laugh, and came up close to 
him. He shut his book, and looked at her in wonder. 
Was this the Sybilla Silver he had known for two years— 
the mild and submissive Sybilla? 

Her black eyes were literally blazing, her swarthy cheeks 
were burning red, her whole dusky face irradiated with a 
glow that might have been borrowed from the infernal re- 
gions. But he sat and looked at her unmoved— only won- 
dering. 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


228 

“ What do you mean? Why have you come hither to- 
night? Why do you look like that? What is it all?^’ 

“It is this!’’ She flung up her arms with a strange, 
wild gesture. “ That the mask worn two long years is 
about to be torn off. It means that you are to hear the 
truth; it means that the purpose of my life is fulfilled; it 
means that tlio hour of my triumph has come.” 

He sat and looked at her, lost in wonder. 

“ You do not speak — you sit and stare as though you 
could not believe your eyes or ears. It is hard to believe, 
I know — the humble, the meek Sybilla metamorphosed 
thus. But the S3^billa Silver you knew was a mockery and 
a delusion. Behold the real one, for the first time in your 
life!” 

“ Woman, who are you? What are you?” 

“I am the granddaughter of Zenith the gypsy, the 
woman your father wronged to the death, and your bitter- 
est enemy, Sir Everard Kingsland!” 

He gazed at her, speechless — struck dumb. 

“ The granddaughter of Zenith the gypsy?” he re- 
peated, in bewilderment. ‘ ‘ Then Sybilla Silver is not 
your name?” 

“ The name is as false as the character in which she 
showed herself — that of your friend.” 

“ And yet,” the young man said, in a tone infinitely ten- 
der, “ the first time we met you saved my life.” 

“ No thanks for that. I did not know you, though if I 
had I would have saved it, all the same. That was not 
the death you were to die. I saved you for the gallows. ” 

“ Sybilla, Sybilla!” 

“I saved you for the gallows!” she fiercely repeated. 
“ I come here to-night to tell you the truth, and you shall 
hear it. Hid I not swear your life away? Did I not nurse 
you back from the vei7 jaws of death? All for what? 
That the astrologer’s prediction might be fulfilled — that 
the heir of Kingsland Court might die a felon’s death on 
the scaffold!” 

“ The astrologer’s prediction?” he cried, catching some 
of her excitement. What do you know about that?” 

“ Everything — everything!” she exclaimed, exultingly. 
“ Far more than you do, for you only know such a thing 
exists — you know nothing of its contents. Oh, no! mamma 
guarded her darling boy too carefully for that, notwith- 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


229 


standing your dying father command. But in spite of 
her it has come true — thanks to your protegee, Sybilla 
Silver. ' 

“What was, the astrologer’s prediction — that terrible 
prediction that shortened my father’s life?” 

“ It was this — that his only son and heir, born on that 
night, would die by the hand of the common hangman, a 
murderer’s death on the scaffold. Enough to blight any 
father’s life who believed in it, was it not?” 

“ It was devilish. My poor father! Tell me the name 
of the fiend incarnate who could do so diabolical a deed, 
for you know?” 

“ I do. That man was my father. 

“ Your father?” 

“ Ay, Achmet the Astrologer. Ha! ha! As much an 
astrologer as you or I. It was his part of our vengeance — 
my part was to see it carried out. I swore, by my dying 
mother’s bedside, to devote my life to that purpose. Have 
I not kept my oath?” 

She folded her arms and looked at him with a face of 
such devilish malignity that words are poor and weak to 
describe it. He recoiled from her as from a visible demon. 

“ For God’s sake, go! You bring a breath of hell into 
this prison. Go — go! You have done your master’s work. 
Leave me!” 

“ Not yet; you have heard but half the truth. Oh, po- 
tent Prince of Kingsland, hear me out! You will be 
hanged to-morrow morning for murdering your wife! You 
didn’t murder her, did you? Who do you suppose did it?” 

He rose to his feet, staggered back against the wall, his 
eyes starting from their sockets. 

“Great God!” 

He could say no more. The awful truth burst upon 
him and struck him speechless. 

“ Ah, you anticipate, I see. Yes, my lord of Kings- 
land, 1 murdered your pretty little wife! Keep off! 1 
have a pistol here, and I’ll blow your brains out if you 
come one step nearer— if you utter a word! I don’t want 
to cheat Jack Ketch, if I can. And it is no use your cry- 
ing for help— there is no one to hear, and these stone walls 
are thick. Stand there, my rich, my noble, my princely 
brother, and listen to the truth.” 


2S0 


THE baronet's ^ BRIDE. 


He stood, holding by the wall, paralyzed, frozen with 
horror. He knew all, as surely as if he had seen the hor- 
rid tragedy. 

“ Yes, I murdered her!" Sybilla reiterated, with sneer- 
ing triumph. “ Disguised in your clothes, using your 
dagger; and she died, believing it to be you. All 1 told, 
and all the boy Dawson told at the trial was true as the 
Heaven you believe in. Your wife was true as truth, 
pure as the angels. She loved only you — she loved you 
with her whole heart and soul. Her vow by the bedside 
of her dying father chained her tongue. To sa,ve you the 
shame, the humiliation of learning the truth about her de- 
graded mother, she met in secret this Mr. Parmalee. On 
that night she went to the stone terrace to see her mother, 
for the first, the last, the only time. I arranged it all — I 
lured her there — I stabbed her, and flung her over into the 
sea! 1 hated her for your sake— 1 hated her for her own. 
And to-morrow, for my crime, you will die!" 

And still he gazed, paralyzed, stunned, motionless, 
speechless. Before him the woman stood, drawn up, to 
her full height, looking at him with blazing eyes, a fitting 
mate for the prince of devils himself. 

“ Poor fool!" she said, with unutterable scorn — “ poor, 
blind, besotted fool! and this is the end of all! Young, 
handsome, rich, high-born, surrounded by friends, t& 
wealthy and the great, one woman’s work brings you to 
this! I have said my say, and now I leave you; here we 
part. Sir Everard Kingsland. Call the jailer; tell him 
what I have told you— tell it through the length and 
breadth of the land, if you choose. Not one will believe you. 
It is an utterly mad and impossible tale. I have only to 
calmly and scornfully deny it. And to-morrow, when the 
glorious sun rises— the sun you will never see — I will be far 
away. In Spain, the land of my mother and my grand- 
mother, I go to join our race — to become a dweller in tents 
— a gypsy, free as the wind that blows. The gold your 
lavish hand has given me will make me and my tribe rich 
for life. I go to be their queen. Farewell, Sir Everard 
Kingsland. My half hour has expired; the jailer comes 
to let me out. But first I go straight from here to 
Kingsland Court, to tell your mother what I have just 
told you— to tell her her idolized son dies for my crime, 
and to kill her, if I can, with the news. Once more, fare- 


THE BAROHET’S BRIDE. 


231 


well, and do/z voyage to you, my haughty young baronet, 
the last of an accursed race!” 

The door swung open— Miss Silver flitted out. It broke 
the spell. The prisoner started forward, tried hoarsely, 
vainly to speak. Enfeebled by long illness, by repeated 
shocks, he staggered a pace or two and fell face forward 
at the jailer’s feet like a log. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

BETWEEN- LIFE AND DEATH. 

And while Sir Everard Kingsland lay in his felon’s cell, 
doomed to die, where was she for whose murder he was to 
give his life? Really murdered? Is there any one above 
the artless and unsuspecting age of six, who reads this 
story, does not know better? 

Harriet — Lady Kingsland — was not dead. Hundreds of 
miles of sea and land rolled between her and Kingsland 
Court, and in a stately New York mansion she looked out 
at the sparkling April sunshine, with life and health beat- 
ing strong in her breast. 

Mr. George Washington Parmalee had saved her life. 
On that tragic night of March tenth, he had quitted the 
Blue Bell with Mrs. Denover, and descended at once to the 
shore, where a boat from the “Angelina Dobbs” was 
awaiting them. 

The “ Angelina ” herself lay at anchor a mile or two 
away, ready to sail as soon as her two passengers came 
aboard. 

Mr. Parmalee took the oars and rowed away in the direc- 
tion of the. park. The sickly glimmer of the moon showed 
him the stone terrace and the solitary figure standing wait- 
ing there. But the noise of the wash on the beach and the 
sighing of the trees prevented Harriet from hearing the dip 
of the sculls. On the sea the night was so dark that the 
boat glided along unseen. 

He had neared the spot and rowed softly along under the 
deep shadow of overhanging trees, whose long arms trailed 
in the waves, when he espied a second figure, muffled in a 
cloak, emerge and confront the lady. He recognized, or 
thought he recognized, the baronet, and came to a dead- 
lock, with a stifled imprecation. 


232 THE bakonet’s bmde. 

“]t^s all up with them three hundred pounds this 
bout/^ he thought; “ confound the luck!’^ 

lie could not hear the words — the distance was too grep.t 
—but he could see them plainly. The wild shriek of Lady 
Kingsland would have been echoed by her terrified mother 
had not the artist clapped his hand firmly over her mouth. 

“ Darnation! Dry up, canT you? Oh, good God!’^ 

He started up* in horror, nearly upsetting the boat. He 
had seen the fatal blow given, he saw the body hurled over 
the railing, and he saw the face of the murderer! 

A flash of moonlight shone full upon it bending down, 
and he recognized, in men^s clothes, the woman who was 
to be his wife. 

A deadly sickness came over him. He sat down in the 
boat, feeling as though he were going to faint. As for 
Mrs. Denover, she was numb with utter horror. 

The assassin fled. As she vanished G. W. Parmalee 
looked up with a hollow groan, remained irresolute for an 
instant, shook himself, and took up the oars. 

“ We must pick up the body, he said, in an unearthly 
voice. “ The waves will wash it away in five minutes. 

He rowed ashore, lifted the lifeless form, carried it into 
the boat, and laid it across the mother’s knee. 

“ We’ll put for the ‘ Angelina,’ ” he observed. “ If 
there’s any life left, we’ll fetch her to there. ” 

“ Her heart beats,” said Mrs. Denover, raining tears and 
kisses on the cold face. “ Oh, my child, my child! it is 
your wretched mother who has done this!” 

They reached the “ Angelina Dobbs,” where they were 
impatiently waited for, and captain and crew stared aghast 
at sight of the supposed corpse. 

“ Do you take the ‘ Angelina Dobbs ’ for a cemetery, 
Mr. Parmalee?” demanded Captain Dobbs, with asperity.' 
“ Who’s that air corpse?” 

“ Come into the cabin and I’ll tell you,” responded Mr. 
Parmalee, leading the way and bearing his burden. 

The captain lingered a moment to issue his orders, and 
followed the photographic artist to the tiny cabin. 

There he heard, in wonder and pity and dismay, the 
story of the stabbed lady. 

“ Poor creeter! Pretty as a picter, tool Who did the 
deed?” 


THE BAEONET^S BEIDE. 233 

“ It looked like her husband/^ replied Mr. Parmaloe. 
“ He was as jealou? as a Turk, anyway. 

“She is not dead!'^ exclaimed Mrs. Denover; “her 
heart flutters. Oh! pray leave me alone with her; 1 think 
1 know what to do.^^ 

The men quitted the cabin. Mrs. Henover removed her 
daughter’s clothing and examined the wound. It was 
deep and dangerous looking, but not necessarily fatal — she 
know that, and she had had considerable experience dur- 
ing her rough life with John Thorndyke. She stanched 
the flow of blood, bathed and dressed the wound, and finally 
the dark eyes opened and looked vaguely in her face. 

“ Who are you? Where am I?” very feebly. 

The woman trembled from 'head to foot and sunk down 
on her knees by the bedside. 

“ I am your nurse,” she said, tremulously, “ and you 
are with friends who love you. ” 

The deep, dark eyes still gazed at her — memory was 
slowly coming back. 

“Ah! I remember.” A look of intense anguish crossed 
her face. “ You are my mother!” 

“ Your most wretched mother! Oh, my darling, I am 
not worthy to look in your face!” 

“You are all that is left to me now — ah. Heaven pity 
me! — since he thinks me guilty. 1 remember all. He 
tried to murder me; he called me a name 1 will never for- 
get. Mother, how came 1 here? Is this a ship?” 

Very gently, softly, soothingly the mother told how Mr. 
Parmalee had saved her life. 

“ And where are we going now?” 

“ To Southampton, I think. But we will return if you 
wish it.” 

“ To the man who tried to take my life? Ah, no, 
mother! Never again in this world to him! Call Mr. 
Parmalee.” 

“ My dear, you must not talk so much; you are not 
able.” 

“ Gall Mr. Parmalee. ” 

Mrs. Denover obeyed. 

The artist presented himself promptly, quite overjoyed. 

“ Why, now,” said Mr. Parmalee, “ I’d rather see this 
than have a thousand dollars down. Why, you look as 
spry almost as ever. How do you feel?” 


234 


THE BARONET S BRIDE. 


' She reached out her hand to him with a wan smile. 

“You have been very good to me and my mother. Be 
good until the end. If 1 die, bury me where he will never 
hear oE my death nor look upon my grave. If I live, take 
me back to New York — I have friends there— and don't 
let him know Whether I am living or dead.'' 

Mr. Parmalee squeezed her slender hand. 

“ I'll do it! It's a go! I owe him one for that kick- 
ing, and, by Jove! here's a chance to pay him. Jest you 
keep up heart and get well, and we'll take you to New 
York in the ‘ Angelina Dobbs,' and nobody be the wiser." 

Mr. Parmalee kept his word. They lay aboard the ves- 
sel while loading at Southampton, and a surgeon was in 
daily attendance upon the sick girl. 

“ You fetch her round," said Mr. Parmalee. “ She's 
the skipper's only daughter — this 'ere craft, the ‘ Angelina 
Dobbs,' is named after her — and he'll foot the bill like a 
lud. There ain't a lord in all this little island of yours, 
for that matter, equal to the Dobbs, of Dobbsville." 

The surgeon did his best, and was liberally paid out of 
the three hundred pounds which Mrs, Denover had found 
in the bosom of Harriet's dress. But for days and weeks 
she lay very ill — ill unto death — delirious, senseless. Then 
the fever yielded, and death-like weakness ensued. 

This, too, passed; and by the time the “Angelina" 
reached New York, the poor girl waK able, wan and 
feeble, to saunter up and down the deck, and drink in the 
life-giving sea air. 

Thus, while fruitless search was being made for G. W. 
Parmalee throughout London — while detectives examined 
every passenger who sailed in the emigrant ships— he was 
safely skimming the Atlantic in Captain Dobbs's cockle- 
shell. 

To do him justice, he never thought— and no more did 
Harriet — of what might follow her disappearance. The 
barohet would leave the country, they both imagined, and 
her fate would remain forever a mystery. 

So the supposed dead bride reached New York in safety, 
and that body washed ashore and identified by Sybilla Sil- 
ver, to suit her own ends, was some nameless unfortunate. 

On the pier in New York Mr. Parmalee and Lady 
Kingsland parted. 

“ I am going to my uncle's house," she said; “ my 


XPE baronet's bride. 


335 


mother's brother. Hugh Henover is a rich merchant, 
and will receive us, I know. Keep my story secret, and 
come and see me next time you visit New York. Here is 
my uncle's address; give me yours, and if ever it is in my 
power, I will not forget how nobly you have acted and 
how inadequately you have been repaid." ^ 

They shook hands and parted. 

Mr. Parmalee went “ down East," not at all satisfied 
with his little English speculation. He had lost a hand- 
some reward and a handsomer wife. He dared hardly 
think to himself that Sybilla had done the horrid deed, 
and he had never breathed a word of his suspicion to Har- 
riet. 

“ Let her think it's the baronet, if she's a mind to," he 
said to himself. “ I ain't a-going to do him a good turn. 
But I know better." 

Harriet and her mother sought out Mr. Henover. He 
lived in a stately up-town mansion, with his wife and one 
son, and received both poor waifs with open arms. His 
lost sister had been his boyhood's pet; he had nothiug f oi- 
lier now but pity and forgiveness, when she looked at him 
with death in her face. 

“ My poor Maria," he said, with tears in his eyes, 
“ don't talk of the wretched past. I love my only sister 
in spite of all, and neither she nor her child shall want a 
home while 1 have one." 

Harriet told her story very briefly. Her father had been 
dead for two years. She had married; she had not lived 
happily with her husband, and they had parted. She had 
come to Uncle Hugh; she knew he would give his sister's 
daughter a home. 

She told her story with dry eyes and unfaltering voice; 
but Mr. Henover, looking in that pale, rigid young face, 
read more of her despair than she dreamed. 

“ Her husband has been some English grandee, like 
Captain Hunsden, 1 dare say," he thought, “ proud as 
Lucifer, and when he. discovered that about her mother, 
despised and ill-treated her. No common trouble would 
make any human face look as hers does, poor child!" 

The penitent wife of Captain Hunsden did not long sur- 
vive to enjoy her new home. Two weeks after their arrival 
she lay upon her death-bed. Nothing could save her. She 


236 


THE BAROHET^S BRIDE. 


had been doomed for months— life gave way when the ex- 
citement that had buoyed her up was gone. 

By night and day Harriet watched by her bedside, and 
the repentant Magdalen's last hours were the most blessed 
she bad ever known. 

I do not deserve to die like this," she often said. 
“ Oh, my darling, your love makes my death-bed very 
sweet!" 

They laid her in Greenwood, and once more Harriet's 
desolation seemed renewed. 

“lam doomed to lose all 1 love," she thought, despair- 
ingly — ‘ ‘ father, husband, mother — all !" 

She drooped day by day, despite the tenderest care. No 
smile ever lighted her pale face, no happy light ever shone 
from the mournful dark eyes. 

“ Her heart is broken," said Uncle Hugh; “ she will 
die by inches before our very eyes!" ' 

And Uncle Hugh's prediction might have been fulfilled 
had not a new excitement arisen to stimulate her to re- 
newed life and send her back to England. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MR. PARMALEE TURNS UP TRUMPS. 

Mr. G. W. Parmalee went down to Dobbsville, Maine, 
and reposed again in the bosom of his family. He went 
to work on the paternal acres for awhile, gave that up in 
disgust, set up once more a picture-gallery, and took the 
portraits of the ladies and gentlemen of Dobbsville at fifty 
cents a head. 

But Mr. Parmalee found life very slow. He was en- 
nuyed nearly to death, and neither man nor woman de- 
lighted him. He looked upon the bouncing damsels, 
bursting out of their hooks and eyes, with cheeks like the 
reddest side of a scarlet apple and eyes like azure moons, 
and compared them, in scornful bitterness of spirit, with 
Miss Sybilla Silver, the fair, the false. 

Mr. Parmalee was fast becoming a misanthrope. His 
speculation had failed, his love was lost; nothing lay before 
him but a long and dreary existence spent in immortalizing 
in tin-types the belles and beaus of Dobbsville. 

Sometimes a fit of penitence overtook him when his 


THE baronet's bride. 2S7 

thoughts reverted to the desohite young creature, worse 
than widowed, dragging out life in Kew York, 

“ I’d ought to tell her,” Mr. Parmalee thought. “ It 
ain’t right to let her keep on thinking that her husband 
murdered her. But then it goes awfully against a feller’s 
grain to poach on the girl he meant to marry. Still — ” 

The remorseful retlection haunted him, do what he 
would. He took to dreaming of the young baronet, too. 
Night after night, pale and reproachful, he stood before 
him in his sleep, haunting him like an uneasy ghost. 
Once he saw him in his shroud, lying dead on the stone 
terrace, and at sight > of him the corpse had risen up, 
ghastly in its grave clothes, and, pointing one quivering 
linger at him, said, in an awful voice: 

“ G. W. Parmalee, it is you who have done this!” 

And Mr. Parmalee had started up in bed, the cold sweat 
standing on his brow like a shower of pease. 

“I won’t stand this, by thunder!” thought the artist 
next morning, in a fit of desperation. “I’ll write up to 
New York this very day and tell her all, so help me Bob!” 

. But “ Vhomme propose ” — you know the proverb. Squire 
Brown, who lived half a mile off, and had never heard of 
Harriet in his life, efiectually altered Mr. Parmalee’s 
plans. 

The worthy squire, jogging along in his cart from 
market, came upon the artist, sitting on the top rail of 
the gate, whittling, and looking gloomily dejected. 

“Hi! George, my boy!” cried out the lusty squire, 
“ what’s gone wrong? You look as dismal as a grave- 
yard!” 

“ W-a-a-1!” drawled the artist, who wasn’t going to tell 
his troubles on the house-tops, “ there ain’t nothin’ much 
to speak of. It’s the all-fired dullness of this pesky, one- 
horse village, where there ain’t nothin’ stirrin’, ’cept files 
in fiy-time, from one year’s end to t’other.” - 

“ See what comes of traveling,” said Squire Brown. 
“ If you had stayed at home, instead of flying round Eng- 
land, you’d have been as right as a trivet. My ’pinion is, 
you’ve been and left a gal behind. Here’s a London pa- 
per for you. My missus gets ’em every mail. Perhaps 
you’ll see your gal’s name in the list of marriages.” 

Mr. Parmalee took the paper chucked at him with lan- 
guid indifference. 


m 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


“ Any news?” he asked. 

“ Lots — just suited to your complaint. A coal mine in 
Cornwall’s been and caved in and buried alive fifteen 
workmen; there’s been a horrid riot in Leeds; and a bar- 
onet in Devonshire is sentenced to be hung for murdering 
his wife.” 

Mr. Parmalee gave one yell — one horrid yelh like a 
Comanche war-whoop — and leaped off the fence. 

“ What did you say?” he roared. “ A baronet in 
Devonshire for murdering his wife?” 

“ Thunder!” ejaculated Squire Brown. “ You didn’t 
know him, did you? Maybe you took his picture when in 
England? Yes, a baronet, and his name it’s Sir Everard 
Kiugsland.” 

With an unearthly groan, Mr. Parmalee tore open the 
paper. 

“ They haven’t hanged him yet, have they?” he gasped, 
ghastly white. *‘Oh, good Lord above! what have 1 
done?” 

Squire Brown sat and stared, a spectacle of densest be- 
wilderment. 

“ You didn’t do the murder, 1 hope?” he asked. 

But Mr. Parmalee was immersed fathoms deep in the 
paper, and would not have heard a thunder-bolt crashing 
beside him. 

The squire rode away, and Mr. Parmalee sat for a good 
hour, half stupefied over the account. The paper con- 
tained a resume of the trial, from first to last — dwelling 
particularly on Miss Silver’s evidence, and ending with the 
sentence of the court. 

The paper dropped from the artist’s paralyzed hand, 
lie covered his face and sat in a trance of horror and re- 
morse. His mother came to call him to dinner, and as he 
looked up in answer to her call, she started back with a 
scream at sight of his unearthly face. 

“ Lor’ a-massy, George Washington! what ever has 
come to you?” 

Mr. Parmalee got up and strode fiercely past her into 
the house. 

“ Pack up my clean socks and shirts, mother,” he said. 
“ I’m going back to England by the first steamer.” 

Late next evening Mr. Parmalee reached New York. 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE. 


230 


Early the following morning he strode up to the brown- 
stone mansion of Mr. Denover and sharply rang the bell. 

“ Is Lady — 1 mean, is Mr. Denover ’s niece to home?’^ 

The servant stared, but ushered him into the drawing- 
room. 

“ Who shall I say?^’ 

Mr. Parmalee handed her his card. 

“ Give her that. Tell her it’s a matter of life and 
death.” 

The servant stared harder than ever, but took the paste- 
board and vanished. Ten minutes after, and Harriet, in a 
white morning robe, pale and terrified, hurried in. 

“ Mr. Parmalee, has anything— have you heard — Oh, 
what is it?” 

“It is this. Lady Kingsland: your husband has been 
arrested and tried for your murder!” 

She clasped her hands together and sunk into a seat. 
She did not cry out or exclaim. She sat aghast. 

“ He has been tried and condemned, and — ” 

He could not finish the sentence, out of pity for that 
death -like face. 

But she understood him, and a scream rang through the 
house which those who heard it might never forget. 

“ Oh, my God! he is condemned to be hanged!” 

“ He is,” said Mr. Parmalee; “ but we’ll stop ’em. 
Now, don’t you go and excite yourself, my lady, because 
you’ll need all your strength and presence of mind in this 
here emergency. There’s a steamer for Liverpool to-mor- 
row. 1 secured our passage before I ever came here.” 

She pressed her hands convulsively over her throbbing 
heart. 

“May the great God grant we be in time! Oh, my 
love! my darling! my husband! 1 never thought of this. 
Lot me but save you, and I am ready to die!” 

“ Only hear her!” cried the electrified artist, who didn’t 
understand this feminine sort of ethics; “ talking like that 
about the man she thinks stabbed her. 1 do believe she 
loves him yet.” 

She lifted her face and looked at him. 

“ With my whole heart. I would die this instant to 
save him. I love him as dearly as when I stood beside 
him at the altar a blessed bride. And he — ah, how dearly 


24:0 THE baronet's bride. 

he loved me once. It is something even to remember 
that." 

“Well, ril be darned," burst out Mr. Parmalee, “if 
this don't beat all creation! You wimmin are the most 
curious critters that ever were invented. Now, then, what 
would you give to know it was not Sir Everard who stabbed 
you that night?". 

She looked at him with wiki, wide eyes. 

“ Not Sir Everard? But I saw him; I heard him 
speak. He did it in a moment of madness, Mr. Parmalee, 
and Heaven only knows what anguish and remorse he has 
suffered since.", 

“ I hope so," said Mr. Parmalee. “ I hope he's gone 
through piles of agony, for I don't like a^bone in his body, 
if it comes to that. But, I repeat, it was not your hus- 
band who stabbed you on the stone terrace that dismal 
night. It was" — Mr. Parmalee gulped — “ it was Sybilla 
Silver!" 

“ What?" 

“ Yes, ma'am — sounds incredible, but it's a fact. She 
rigged out in a suit of Sir Everard's clothes, mimicked his 
voice, and did the deed. 1 saw her face when she pitched 
you over the rail as plain as I see your'n this minute, and 
I'm ready to swear to it through all the courts in Christen- 
dom. She hated you like pisen, and the baronet, too, and 
she thinks she's put an end to you both; but if we don’t 
give her an eye-opener pretty soon, my name ain't Parma- 
lee." 

She sunk on her knees and held up her clasped hands. 

“ Thank God! thank God! thank God!" 

And then, woman-like, the sudden ecstasy was too 
much, and the hysterics came on. She laughed, and 
kissed Mr. Parmalee’s hand, and dropped it, and broke out 
into a perfect passion, of tempestuous sobs; and Mr. 
Parmalee, scared pretty nearly out of his wits, rang the 
bell and quitted the house precipitately, leaving word that 
he would call again in the evening and arrange matters, 
when “Mr. Denover’s niece had come to." 

Next day they sailed for England. The passage was all 
that could be desired, even by the mad impatience of Har- 
riet. People stared at the pale, beautiful girl with the 
high-bred face and the wild, strained eyes who seemed to 
know no one save the tall Yankee gentleman, who ad- 


THE baronet’s bride. 


24:1 


dressed her as “ my lady.” It was very odd, and they 
asked Mr. Parmalee questions, and Mr. Parmalee eyed 
them askance, and informed them she was a young duch- 
ess traveling incog, under his protection; had done the 
great tfnited States, and was going to bring it out in a 
book. But Harriet herself addressed no one. Heart and 
soul were absorbed in the one thought — the one hope — to 
reach England in time. 

They arrived in Liverpool. • Mr. Parmalee and his com- 
panion posted full speed down to Devonshire. In the 
luminous dusk of the soft May evening they reached Wor- 
rell, Harriet’s thick veil hiding her from every eye. 

“ We’ll go to Mr. Bryson’s first,” said Parmalee, Bry- 
son being Sir Everard’s lawyer. “ We’re in the very nick 
of time: to-morrow morning at day-dawn is fixed for — ” 

“ Oh, hush!” in a voice of agony; “not that fearful 
word! Oh, Mr. Parmalee, if we should be too late, after 
all!” 

“We can’t,” said the artist; “they ain’t a-going to 
hang him for the murder of a woman they see alive. We’ll 
stop ’em, if the rope is round his neck. You keep up a 
.good heart — you’re all right, at last.” 

They reached the house of Mr. Bryson. He sat over his 
eight-o’clock cup of tea, with a very gloomy face. The 
tragedy to take place in the gray and dismal dawn to-mor- 
row had cast an awful shadow over the whole place. He 
had known Sir Everard all his life — he had known his 
beautiful bride, so passionately beloved. He had bidden 
the doomed young baronet a last farewell that afternoon. 

He never did it,” said he to himself. “ There is a 
horrible mystery somewhere. He never did it— I could 
stake my life on his innocence — and he is to die to-mor- 
row, poor fellow! That missing man, Parmalee, did it, 
and that fierce young woman with the big black eyes and 
deceitful tongue was his aider and abettor. If I could 
only find that man!” 

A servant entered with a card, “ G. W. Parmalee.” 
The lawyer rose with a cry. 

“ Good Heaven above! It can’t be! It’s too good to 
be true! He, never would rush into the lion’s den in this 
way. John Thomas, who gave you this?” 

“ Which the gentleman is in the droring-room, sir,” re- 
sponded John Thomas, “ as likewise the lady.” 


2i2 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 


Mr. Bryson rushed for the drawing-room, flung wide 
the door, and confronted Mr. Parmalee. The sight struck 
him speechless. 

“ Good-evening, squire,” said the American. 

“You here!” gasped the lawyer — “ the man for whom 
we have been scouring the kingdom!” 

“You’d odghter scoured the Atlantic,” replied the 
artist, with infinite calm. “I’ve been home to see my 
folks. I suppose you wanted me to throw a little light on 
that ’ere horrid murder? Ah, dreadful thing that was! 
Found the body yet?” 

“ 1 suspect you know more of that murder than any 
other man alive!” said the lawyer. 

“ Do tell! Well, now, I ain’t a-going to deny i!>— I do 
know all about it, squire.” 

“ What?” 

“ Precisely! Don’t holler out so! What do you think 
a fellow’s narves are made of? Yes, sir, I saw the deed 
done.” 

“ You did? Good heavens!” 

“ Don’t swear, squire; it’s an immoral practice. Y"es, 
I saw the stab given with that ’ere long knife; and it 
wasn’t the baronet did it, either, though you’re going to 
hang him for it to-morrow.” 

“ In Heaven’s name, man, speak out! Who did the 
deed?” 

“ Sybilla Silver!” 

The lawyer clasped his hands with a wild gesture. 

“ I knew it — 1 thought it — I said it! The she-devil! 
Poor, poor Lady Kingsland!” 

“Ma’am,” said the American, turning blandly to his 
veiled companion, “ perhaps it will relieve Mr. Bryson’s 
gushing bosom to behold your face. Jest lift that ’ere 
veil.” 

The veiled female rose, flung back her veil, and con- 
fronted the lawyer. With an awful cry Mr. Bryson stag- 
gered back against the wall. 

“ All- merciful Heaven! the dead alive! Lady Kings- 
land!” 


THE BARONET^S BRIDE, 


243 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

HIGHLY SEHSATIOHAL. 

Sybilla Silver went straight from the prison cell of 
Sir Everard to the sick-room of his mother. It was almost 
eleven when she reached the Court, but they watched the 
night through in that house of mourning. 

Leaving the fly before the front entrance, Sybilla stole 
round, in the placid May moonlight, to that side door she 
had used the memorable night of March tenth. She had a 
latch-key to fit it, and it was never bolted, as she knew. 
She admitted herself without difficulty, and proceeded 
at once to Lady Kingsland’s sick-room. 

She tapped lightly at the door. It was opened instantly, 
and the pale face of Mildred looked out. At sight of her 
visitor she recoiled with a look of undisguised horror. 

“You here! How dare you, you cruel, wicked, merci- 
less woman she indignantly cried. 

“ Hard words. Miss Kingsland. Let me in, if you please 
— 1 wish to see your mother. 

“ You shall not come in! I will rouse the house! The 
sight of you will kill her! I will die before 1 let you cross 
this threshold! Was it not enough to swear away the life 
of her only son? Do you want to blast her dying hours 
with the sight of your base, treacherous face?^’ 

She broke out into a passionate paroxysm of weeping. 

With a look of scornful contempt, Sybilla took her by 
the shoulder and drew her out of the room. 

“ Don’t be an idiot, Mildred Kingsland! 1 gave my evi- 
dence — how could I help it? It wasn’t my fault that your 
brother murdered his wife. Hold your tongue and listen 
to me. I must see your mother for ten minutes. I have 
been to the prison. I bring a last message from her son. ” 

Mildred looked up in consternation. 

“You have been to prison!” she cried. “You dare 
look my brother in the face!” 

“Just as easily as I do his sister. Luckily, he has more 
sense than she has, and bears me no grudge for what I 
could not help. Am I to see Lady Kingsland, or shall I 
go as I came, with Sir Everard ’s message undelivered?” 

“ The sight of you will kill her.” 


244 


THE EAHONET’S BRIDE. 


“We must risk that.^^ 

She passed into the room as she spoke, with a parting 
word for Mildred. 

“ Wait here/^ she said. “ I must see her quite alone, 
but it will only be for a few minutes. 

She closed the door and stood alone the sicklady^s room. 
The night-lamp burned dim; she turned it up and ap- 
proached the bed. 

“ Is it you, Mildred.^^^ a \mk voice asked. “ The light 
is too strong. 

“ It is not Mildred, my lady. It is 

“ Sybilla Silver!’^ 

No words can describe the look of agony, of terror, of 
repulsion, that crossed my lady’s face. She held up both 
hands with a gesture of loathing and horror. 

“ Keep off!” she cried. “ You murderess!” 

Involuntarily the fiendish woman quailed at that word. 
But only for an instant. 

“ Yes,” she cried, her black eyes flaming up, “ that is 
the word — murderess! — for I murdered your daughter-in- 
law. You never liked her, you know. Lady Kingsland. 
Surely, then, when I stabbed her and threw her into the 
sea, I did you a good turn. Don’t cry out, please; there 
is no one to hear but Mildred, and she was always a poor, 
weak fool. Lie still, and listen to me. 1 have a long story 
to tell you, beginning with the astrologer’s prediction.” 

These last two words, as Sybilla well knew, riveted the 
attention of the sick woman at once. 

With fiendish composure Sybilla repeated the story 
she had told Sir Everard, while Lady Kingsland lay para- 
lyzed and listened. 

The atrocious revelation' ended, she looked at her pros- 
trate foe with a diabolical smile. 

“ My oath is kept; the prediction is fulfilled. In a few 
hours the last of the Kingslands dies by the hand of the 
common hangman. I have told you all, and I dare you to 
injure one hair of my head. Within the hour my journey 
from England commences. Search for last year’s snow, 
for last September’s partridges, and when you find them 
you may hope to find Sybilla Silver. Burn the prediction, 
destroy my grandmother’s portrait and lock of hair, so 
carefully hidden away for many years. Their work is 


THE BAKONET’S BRIDE. 24:5 

done, and my vengeance is complete. Lady Kingslanrl, 
farewell 

“ Murderess!^’ spoke a deep and awful voice— “ mur- 
deress! murderess!^' 

“ Ah-li-h-h-h!^’ 

With a shriek of wordless affright, Sybilla Silver leaped 
back, and stood cowering against the wall. For the dead 
had risen and stood before her. The phantom slowly ad- 
vanced. 

“ Murderess, confess your guiltP^ 

“Mercy, mercy! mercy!"" shrieked Sybilla Silver. 
“ Spare me! Touch me not!- Oh, God! what is this?"" 

“ Confess!’" 

Hollow and terrible sounded that voice. 

“ 1 confess — I murdered you-— 1 stabbed you! Sir Ever- 
ard is innocent! Keep off! Mercy! mercy!"" 

With an unearthly scream, the horrified woman threw 
up both arms to keep off the awful vision, and fell for- 
ward in strong convulsions. 

“ Very well done,"" said Mr. Bryson, entering briskly. 
“ 1 don"t think we need any further proof of tliis lady’s 
guilt. Yon have played ghost to some purpose, my dear 
Lady Kipgsland. Who says, now, my melodramatic idea 
was not a good one? She would have denied every word 
black, and tortures would not have wrung a confession out 
of her. Come in, gentlemen. We’ll have no trouble car- 
rying off our prize. 1 hope she hasn’t done too much mis- 
chief already."" 

He paused, and stepped back with a blanched face, for 
Lady Kingsland lay writhing in the last agony. 

With a wild cry, Mildred threw herself on her knees by 
her mother’s side. 

“ Mamma — dear mamma— don’t look like that! Har- 
riet is not dead. She is here alive. It was that dreadful 
woman who tried to kill her. Everard is innocent, as we 
knew he was. He will be here with us in a day or two. ” 

The dying woman was conscious. Her eyes turned and 
fixed on Harriet. The white disguise had been thrown off. 
She came over to the bedside, pale and beautiful. 

“ Mother,” she said, sweetly, “it is indeed I. Dear 
mother, bless me once."" 

“ May God bless you and forgive me! Tell Everard — ” 

She never finished the sentence. The death-rattle 


246 


THE baronet’s BRIBE. 


sounded, her head fell back, her eyes turned, \Yith the 
name of the son she idolized upon her lips. Lady Kingsland 
was dead. 

The three men — Mr. Bryson, Mr. Parmalee, and the 
head constable of Worrel — stood looking at one another, 
awed and stunned by the suddenness of the shock. 

But Harriet’s presence of mind did not forsake her. 
Reverently she kissed the dead face, closed the dead eyes, 
and rose. 

“ The dead are free from suffering. Our first duty is to 
the living. Take me to my husband!” 

She held out her arms imploringly. The men assented 
unanimously. The constable lifted Sybilla unceremoni- 
ously. The servants gathered outside the door gave way, 
and he placed her in the carriage which had conveyed them 
to the house. 

Mr. Parmalee went with him, and Lady Kingsland and 
the lawyer took possession of the fly that stood waiting for 
Miss Silver. 

A minute later and they were flying, swift as lash and 
shout could urge them, toward Worrel Jail. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“after storm, THE SUNSHINE.” 

Earlier in the evening, when Harriet had told her 
story to Mr. Bryson, that gentleman had proceeded at once 
to the prison to inform the prisoner and the officials that 
the murdered lady was alive. 

Full of his good news, he hastened rapidly forward, and 
was admitted at once to the condemned cell. 

There he found the warden of the prison and the clergy- 
man, listening with very perplexed faces to a story the 
prisoner was narrating. 

Sir Everard lay upon the bed, pallid and exhausted, but 
thoroughly calm and self-possessed. 

“ This is a most extraordinary revelation,” the clergy- 
man was saying, with a bewildered face. “ I really don’t 
know what to think. ” 

“ What is it?” asked Mr. Bryson. 

“ A story which, wildly incredible as it seems, is yet true 
as Holy Writ,” answered the prisoner. “The real mu r- 


THE baronet’s BRIDE. 247 

derer is found. She has been here, and admitted her 
guilt.” 

“ What!” exclaimed the lawyer. “ Sybilla Silver?” 

There was an exclamation from his listeners. 

“Why!” cried the warden, in wonder, “ you, too?” 

“ Exactly,” said Mr. Bryson, with a nod. “ I know all 
about it. A most important witness has turned up — no 
other than the missing man, Mr. Parmalee. He saw the 
deed done — saw Sybilla Silver, dressed in Sir Everard’s 
clothes, do it, and has come all the way from America to 
testify against her. Sir Everard, my dear friend, from 
the bottom of my soul I congratulate you on your most 
blessed escape!” 

The tears were in his eyes as he wrung the young man’s 
hand; but Sir Everard took it very quietly. He seemed to 
have passed beyond all earthly emotion. 

“ Thank you!” he said. “ If my life is spared, it is for 
some good end, no doubt. Thank God! A felon’s death 
would have been very bitter, and for my mother’s sake I 
rejoice.” 

“Not for your own?” 

He shaded his face and turned away. 

“ I have lost all that made life sweet. My wife is in 
heaven. For me earth holds nothing but penitence and 
remorse. ” 

“ I am not so sure about that. I have better news for 
you even than the news 1 have told. My dear friend, can 
you bear a great shock — a shock of Joy?” 

He sprung up in bed, electrified. 

“ Speak!” he gasped. “ Oh, for God’s sake—” 

“ Your wife is alive!” 

There was a simultaneous cry. The three men hardly 
dared look at the baronet. 

Mr. Bryson hurried on rapidly: 

“ Sybilla Silver stabbed her, and threw her over upon the 
shore.* Mr. Parmalee picked her up— not dead, but badly 
wounded — took her on board a vessel — took her finally to 
America. Sybilla Silver deceived your poor wife as she de- 
ceived us all. Lady Kingsland thought it was you. Sir 
Everard. But she is alive and well, and in Worrel at this 
very moment. Sir Everard, my dear friend, bear this like 
a man! You have endured the highest earthly misfortune 
like a hero. Do not sink now under your new-found joy. 


248 


THE BARONET’S BRIDE. 


God is good, you see, to those who trust in Him. Our 
first business is to cage our bird before she flies. Can you 
aid us any. Sir Everard? Where are we .most likely to 
find her?” 

“At the Court,” the baronet answered. “She left 
here to go there — to kill my mother with her horrible news, 
if she could.” 

He was scarcely able to reply. His heart was full to 
bursting. His wife alive — in Worrel? Oh, it was too 
good to be true! 

“We will leave you now,” Mr. Bryson said, rising. 
“ Come, gentlemen; Sir Everard wants to be alone. 1 am 
00 to secure my prisoner; and really I never did secure a 
prisoner before with half so much delight.” 

It was on his way back to his own house that Mr. Bryson 
lighted on his ghostly plan for frightening Sybilla. Hov/ 
well it succeeded you know. 

She was still insensible when they reached the prison, 
and was handed over to the proper authorities. Harriet 
turned her imploring face toward the lawyer. 

“Let me go to my hubsand! Oh, dear Mr. Bryson, let 
me go at once!” 

They led her to the door. The jailer admitted her and 
closed it again. She was in her husband’s prison cell. 
Beside the bed, in the dim lamp-light, he knelt — very, 
very worn, very, very pale. She gave a sob at the sight. 
Her arms were around his neck, her tears, her kisses rain- 
ing on his face. 

“ Oh, my darling, my darling! my life, my love, my 
husband!” 

“ Harriet!” 

With a great cry he rose and held her to his heart — held 
her as though never on this earth to let her go again. 

“My wife, my wife!” 

And then, weak with long illness and repeated shocks — 
this last, greatest shock of all— he sat down, faint unto 
death. 

“ Oh, my love, my wife! to think that 1 should hold you 
once more in my arms, look once more into your living 
face! My wife, my wife! How cruel, how merciless I have 
been to you! May God forgive me! 1 will forgive myself 
—never!” 


THE BAROKET'S BRIDE. 


249 


Her white hand covered his lips— her own sealed them 
with passionate kisses. 

“ ]Qot one word! Between us there can be no such thing 
as forgiveness. We could neither of us have acted other 
than as we did. My oath bound me — your honor was at 
stake. We have both suffered — Heaven only knows how 
deeply. But it is past now. Nothing in this lower world 
shall ever come between us again, my beloved 

“ Not even death, he said, folding her close to his 
heart. 

* * * 5 }: * ^ 

One month after and Sir Everard Kingsland, his wife, 
and sister quitted England for the Continent, not to make 
the grand tour and return, but to reside for years. 
England was too full of painful memories; under the sun- 
lit skies of beautiful Italy they were going to forget. 

Sybilla Silver was dead. All her plans had failed— her 
oath of vengeance was broken. Sir Everard and his bride 
were triumphant. She had failed — miserably failed; she 
thought of it until she went mad— stark, staring mad. 
Her piercing shrieks rang through the stony prison all day 
and all night long, freezing the blood of the listeners, un- 
til one night, in a paroxysm of frenzy, she had dashed her 
head against the wall and bespattered the floor with her 
blood and brains. They found her, in the morning, stone 
dead. 

Out into the lazy June sunshine the steamer glided, 
leaving the chalky cliffs of old England behind. With his 
handsome wife on his arm, the fair-haired young baronet 
stood looking his last at his native land, his face infinitely 
happy. 

“ For years,^' he said, with a smile — “ for life, perhaps, 
Harriet. I feel as if I never wished to return.'^ 

“ But we shall, she said. “ England is home. A few 
happy years in fair foreign lands, and then, Everard, back 
to the old land. But first, 1 confess, I should like again 
to see America, and Uncle Denover, and ” — with a little 
laugh — “ George Washington Parmalee.'^ 

For Mr. > Parmalee had gone back to Dobbsville, a rich 
and happy man, at peace with all the world. Sir Everard 
Kingsland included. 

“ YouTe a brick, baronet,^’ his parting speech had been, 


250 


THE BAROKET^S BRIDE. 


US he wrung that young man^s hand; “you air, 1 swan! 
And your wife's another! Long may you wave!" 

Sir Everard laughed aloud now at the recollection. 

“ Money can never repay our obligation to that worthy 
artist. May his shadow never be less! We shall go over 
to Dobbsville and see him, and have our pictures taken, 
next year. Look, Harriett! how the chalky cliffs are 
melting into the blue above! One parting peep at Eng- 
land, and so a long good-bye to the old land!" he said, 
taking off his hat, and standing, radiant and happy, with 
the June sunlight on his handsome head. 


THE END. 



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gfiad^folgcubc SScrte ftnb in bcr ©eiitjcften Sibror^ cifcbicncn: 


1 Der Kaiser, von Prof. G. Ebers. 20 


2 Die Somosierra, von R. Wald- 

niiiller 10 

3 Das Geheimniss (fsr alten Mam- 

sell, Roman von E. Marlitt. . . 10 

4 Qnisisana, vori Fr. Spielhagen. 10 

5 Gartenlauben-Bluthen, von E. 

Werner 20 

6 Die Hand der Nemesis, von E. 

A. Konig 20 

7 Amtmann’s Magd, von E, Mar- 

litt 20 

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9 Auf der Riimmingsburg, von M. 

Widdern 10 

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11 GliickaufI von E. Werner 10 

12 Goldelse, von E. Marlitt 20 

13 Vater und Sohn, von F. Lewald 10 

14 Die Wurger von Paris, von C. 

Vacano 20 

15 Der Diamantschleifer, von Ro- 

senthal-Bonin 10 

16 Ingo und Ingraban, von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

17 Eine Frage, von Georg Ebers.. 10 

18 Im Paradiese, von Paul Heyse . 20 

19 In beiden Hemispharen, von 

Sutro-Schiicking 10 

'X) Gelebt und gelitten, von H. 

Wachenliusen 20 

31 Die Eichhofs, von M. von Rei- 

chenbach 10 

i\2 Kinder der Welt, von P, Heyse. 

Erste Haifte 20 

^2 Kinder der Welt, von P. Heyse. 

Zweite ‘Hiilfte 20 

33 Barfiissele, von B. Auerbach. . . 10 

24 Das Nest der Zaunkonige, von 

G. Freytag 20 

25 Fi-Uhlingsboten, von E. Werner 10 

36 Zelle No. 7, von Pierre Zacone. 20 

37 Die junge Frau, von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

28 Buchenheim, von Th. von Varn- 

biiler 10 

29 Auf der Bahn des Verbrechens, 

von E. A. Konig 20 

30 Brigitta, von Berth. Auerbach. 10 

31 Im Schillingshof, von E. Marlitt 20 

32 Qesprengte Fesseln, von E. Wer- 

ner 10 

.33 Der Heiduck, von Hans Wa- 

ohenhusen 20 

•34 Die Sturmhexe, von Grafln M. 

Keyserling 10 

35 Das Kind Bajazzo’s, von E. A. 
Konig 20 


36 Die Briider vom deutschen 

Hause, von Gustav Frevtag. . 20 

37 DerWilddieb, vonF. Gerstttcker 10 

38 Die Verlobte, von Rob. Wald- 


miiller 20 

89 Der Doppelgilnger, von L. 
^hticking 10 


40 Die weisse Frau von Greifen- 

stein, von E. Fels 20 

41 Hans und Grete, von Fr. Spiel- 

hagen 10 

42 Mein Onkel Don Juan, von H. 

Hopfen . 20 

43 Markus Konig, von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

44 Die schonen Amerikanerinnen, 

von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

45 Das grosse Loos, von A. Konig 20 

46 Zur Ehre Gottes, von Sacher, 

und Ultimo, von F. Spielhagen 10 

47 Die Geschwister, von Gustav 


Freytag 20 

48 Bischof und Konig, von Mariam 

Tenger, und Der Piratenko- 
nig, von M. Jokai 10 

49 Reichsgrafiu Gisela, von Marlitt 20 

50 Bewegte Zeiten, von Leon Alex- 

androwitsch 10 

51 Um Ehre und Leben, von E. A. 

Konig.. 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt, von 

Gustav Freytag 20 

53 Hildegard, von Ernst von Wal- 

dow 10 

54 Dame Orange, von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johannisnacht, von M. Schmidt 10 

56 Angela, von Fr. Spielhagen 20 

57 Falsche Wege, von J. von Brun- 

Barnow 10 

58 Versunkene Welten, von W. 

Jensen 20 

59 Die Wohnungssucher, von A. 

von Winterfeld 10 

60 Eine Million, von E. A. Kdnig.. 20 

61 Das Skelet, von F. Spielhagen, 

und Das Frdlenhaus, von Gu- 
stav zu Putlitz 10 

62 Soil und Haben, von G. Freytag. 

Erste HSlfte 20 

62 Soil und Haben, von G. Freytag. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

63 Schloss Griinwald, von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 

64 Zwei Kreuzherren, von Lucian 

Herbert 20 

65 Die Erlebnisse einer Schutzlo- 

sen, von K. Sutro-Schiicking. 10 

66 Das Haideprinzesschen, von E. 

Marlitt 20 

67 Die Qeyer-Wally, von Wilh. von 

Hillern 10 

68 Idealisten, von A. Reinow 20 

69 Am Altar, von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Konig der Luft, von A. von 

Winterfeld 20 

71 Moschko von Parma, von Karl 

E. Franzos 10 

72 Schuld und SUhne, von Ewald 

A. KSnig 20 

73 In Reih’ und Glied, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste H&lfte. ... 20 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 


78 In Reih’ und Glied, von Fr. 
Spielhagen. Zweite Hftlfte.. 

74 QeheimnisseeinerkleinenStadt, 

von A. von Winterfeld 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein, von 

B. Auerbach. Erste HS,lfte. . 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein, von 

B. Auerbach. Zweite Halfte. 

76 Clara Vere, von Friedrich Spiel- 

hagen 

77 Die Frau Biirgermeisterin, von 

G. Ebers 

78 Aus eigener Kraft, von Wilh. v. 

Hillern 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht, von K. 

Franzos 

80 Prinzessin Schnee, von Marie 

Widdern 

81 Die zweite Frau, von E. Marlitt 

82 Benvenuto, von Fanny Lewald. 

83 Pessimisten, von F, von Stengel 
^ Die Hof dame der Erzherzogin, 

von F. von Witzleben-Wen- 
delstein 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert, von B. 

Young 

86 Thiiringer Erzahlungen, von E. 

Marlitt 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella, von A. 

Dom 

88 Vom armen egyptischen Mann, 

von Hans Wac’heuhusen 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjahrigen Krieg, von E. 
A. Konig 

90 Das Fraulein von St. 

ranthe, von R. von Gottschall 

91 Der Fiirst von Montenegro, von 

A. V. Winterfeld 

92 Um ein Herz, von E. Falk 

93 Uarda, von Georg Ebers 

94 In der zwolften Stunde, von 

Fried. Spielhagen, und Ebbe 
und Flutn, von M. Widdern.. 
95'Die von Hohenstein, von Fr. 
Spielhagen. Erste Halfte — 

95 Die von Hohenstein, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte.. 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch, von Lu- 

cian Herbert 

97 Im Hause des Commerzien- 

Raths, von Marlitt 

98 Helene, von H. Wachenhusen, 

und Die Prinzessin von Portu- 
gal, vpn A. Meissner 

99 Aspasia, von Robert Hammer- 


100 Ekkehard, v. Victor v. Scheffel. 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom, von F. 

Dahn. Erste Hklfte 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom, von F. 

Dahn. Zweite HSlfte 

102 Spinoza, von Berth. Auerbach. 

103 Von der Erde zum Mond, von 

J. Verne 

104 Der Todesgruss der Legionen, 

von G. Samarow 

105 Reise um den Mond, von Julius 

Verne 


106 Fiirst und Musiker, von Max 

Ring 20 

107 Nena Sahib, von J. Retcliffe. 

Erster Band 20 

107 Nena Sahib, von J. Retclifte. 
Zweiter Band 20 

107 Nena Sahib, von J. Retcliffe. 

DritterBand 20 

108 Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 

der Erde, von J. Verne 10 

109 Die silberne Hochzeit, von S. 

Kohn 10 

110 Das Spukehaus, von A. von 

Winterfeld 20 

111 Die Erben des Wahnsinns. von 

T. Marx 10 

112 Der Ulan, von Joh. van Dewall 10 

113 Um hohen Preis. von E, Werner 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten, von B. Auerbach. Erste 

Halfte 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten, von B, Auerbach. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

115 Reise um die Erde, von Julius 

Verne 10 

116 Casars Ende, von S. J. R., 


117 Auf Capri, von Carl Detlef . ... 10 

118 Severa, von E. Hartuer 2<1 

119 Ein Arzt der Seele, von Wilh. 

von Hillern a(\ 

120 Die Livergnas, von Hermann 

Willfried to 

121 Zwanzigtausend Meilen unterm 

Meer, von Jul. Verne 20 


122 Mutter und Sohn, von A. Godin ^0 

123 Das Haus des Fabrikanten, von 

G, Samarow 

124 Bruderflicht und Liebe, von L. 

Schiicking ^0 

125 Die ROmerfahrt der Epigonen, 

von G. Samarow. 'Erste 


Halfte 20 

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von G. Samarow. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

126 Porkeles und Porkelessa, von J. 

Scherr 10 

127 Ein Friedensstorer, von Victor 

Biathgen, und Der heimliche 
Gast, von R. Byr 20 

128 Schdne Frauen, von R. Edmund 

Hahn 10 

129 Bakchen und Thyrsostrager, 

von A. Niemann 90 

130 Getrennt, Roman von E. Polko 10 

131 Alte Ketten, Roman von L. 

Schiicking.... 90 

132 Ueber die Wolken, von Wilhelm 

Jensen !<• 

133 Das Gold des Orion, von H. 

Rosenthal-Bonin If* 

134 Um den Halbmond, von Gr. 

Samarow. Erste Hklfte 2^ 

134 Um den Halbmond, von Gr. 

Samarow. Zweite Half te 20 

135 Troubadour - Novellen, von P. 

Heyse 10 


20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY, 


136 Der Schweden-Schatz, von H. 

Wachenhusen 20 

137 Die Bettlerin vom Pont des 

Arts und Das Bild des Kaisers, 
von Wilh. Hauff 10 

138 Modelle, Hist. Roman, von A. 

von Winterfeld 20 

139 Der Krieg um die Haube, von 

Stefanie Keyser 10 

110 Numa Roumestan', von Al- 
pjhonse Daudet 20 


von Sydow, und Engelid, No- 
velle von Balduin Mollliausen 10 
142 Bartolomaus, von Brnsehaver, 
und Musma Cussalin, Novel- 


len von L. Ziemssien 10 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter, Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 

Winterfeld. Erste Halfte 20 

113 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter, Ko- 
mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Zweite Halfte. . . 20 

144 Ein Wort, Neuer Roman von G. 

Ebers.. 20 

145 Novellen, von Paul Heyse. 10 

146 Adam Homo in Versen, von 

Paludan-Miiller 20 

147 Ihr einziger Bruder, von W. 

Heimburg 10 

148 Ophelia, Roman von H. von 

Lankenau 20 

149 Nemesis, von Helene von Hiilsen 10 

150 Felicitas, Hiscor. Roman von F. 

Dahn 10 

151 Die Claudier, Roman von Ernst 

Eckstein 20 

152 Eine Verlorene, von Leopold 

Komnert 10 

153 Luginfwnd, Roman von Otto 

Roquette 20 

1.54 Im Banne der Mxisen, von W. 

Heimburg 10 

1.55 Die Schwester, v. L. Schiioking 10 

156 Die Colonie, von Friedrich Ger- 

stScker 20 

157 Deutsche Liebe, Roman von M. 

Muller 10 

158 Die Rose von Delhi, von Fels. 

Erste HSlfte 20 

158 Die Rose von Delhi, von Fels. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

159 Debora, Roman von W. Muller. 10 

160 Ejine Mutter, von Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 20 

161 Friedhofsblume, von W. von 

Hillern 10 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe, von K. 

Fi-enzel 20 

163 Gebannt und erldst, von E. Wer- 

ner ' 20 

161 Uhlenhans, Roman von Fried. 
Spielhagen 20 

165 Klytia, Roman von G. Taylor. . . 20 

166 Mayo, ErzUhlung von P. Lindau 10 

167 Die Herrin von Ibichstein, von 

F. Henkel 20 

168 Die Saxoborussen, von Gr, Sa- 

marow. Erste Halfte 20 


Die Saxoborussen. von Gr. Sa- 

marow. Zweite Hftlfte JiO 

Serapis, Roman von G. Ebers. . 20 

Ein Gottesurtheil, Roman von 

E. Werner 10 

Die Kreuzfahrer, Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

Der Erbe von Weidenhof, von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

Die Reise nach dem Schicksal, 

von K. Franzos 10 

Villa Schdnow, Roman vonW. 

Raabe 10 

Das Vermachtniss, von Ernst 

Eckstein. Erste Hfilfte W 

Das Vermachtniss, von Ernst 

Eckstein. Zweite Halfte >W 

Herr und Frau Bewer, von P. 

Lindau 10 

Die Nihilisten, von Joh. Scherr. 10 
Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen, von E. Marlitt ‘W 

Jetta, von George Taylor 20 

Die Stieftochter, von J. Smith. 

An der Heilquelle, von Fried. 

Spielhagen 

Was der Todtenkopf erzahlt, 

von M. Jokai •Jvii 

Der Zigeunerbaron, von M. 

Jokai JJ 

Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

Ehre, Roman von O. Schubin . . 2* 
Violanta, Roman von E. Eck- 
stein 

Nemi, Erzahlung von H. Wa- 
chenhusen 10 

Strandgut. von Joh. von Dewall.. 

Erste Halfte 20 

Strandgut, von Joh. von Dewall. 

Zweite Halfte 2tl 

Homo sum, von Georg Ebers. . 21) 
Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 
ter, von Georg Ebers. Erste 

Halfte 20 

Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 
ter, von Georg Ebers. Zweite ?0 

Halfte 

Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Erste Halfte 20 

Sanct Michael, von E, Werner. 

Zweite Halfte SO 

Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Erste Halfte 20 

Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 
Zweite Halfte 20 

Die Andere, von W. Heimburg. 20 
Ein armes Madchen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

Der Roman der Stiftsdame, von 

Paul Heyse.. 20 

Kloster Wendhusen, von W. 

Heimburg i'j 

Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 
Sacher-Masoch. Erste Halfte S,j 
Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 
Sacher-Masoch. Zweite Haifte 2,j 
Frau Venus, von Kari Frenzel.. ao 


168 : 

169 

170 

171 

172 

173 

174 

175 

175 

176 

177 

178 

179 

180 

181 

182 

183 

184 

185 

186 

187 

188 

188 

189 

190 

190 

191 

191 

192 

192 

193 

194 

195 

196 

197 

197 

19S 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 


199 Eine Viertelstunde Vater, von 

F. W. Hacklander 10 

200 Heimatklang, von E. Werner.. 10 

201 Herzenskrisen, von W. Heim- 

burg 20 

202 Die Sch western, von Q. Ebers.. 20 

203 Der Egoist, von E. Werner. ... 10 

204 Salvatore, von E. Eckstein.... 20 

205 Lumpenmullei’S Lieschen, von 

W. Heiinburg ; 20 

206 Das einsame Haus, von Adolf 

Streckfus 20 


207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Frey tag. Erste Halfte. . . 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Freytag. Zweite Halfte. . 20 

208 Das Eulenhaus, von E. Marlitt 20 

209 Des Herzens Golgatha, von H. 


Waclienhusen 20 

210 Aus dem Leben meiner alten 

Freundin, von W. Heimbnrg 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Erste 

-Halfte 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

212 Trudchens Heirath, von Wilh. 

Heimbnrg 20 

213 Asbein, von Ossip Schubin. . .. 20 

214 Die Alpenfee, von E. Werner. . 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Erste 

Halfte 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

216 Zwei Seelen, von R. Lindau 20 

217 Manover- u. Kriegsbilder, von 

Joh. von Dewall 10 

218 Lore von ToUen, von W. Heira- 

burg 20 


219 Spitzen, von P. Lindau 20 

220 Der Referendar, von E. Eck- 

stein 10 

221 Das Geiger-Evchen,von A.Dom 20 

222 Die Gdtterburg, von M. Jokai 20 

223 Der Kronprinz und die deutsche 

Kaiserkrone, von G. Freytag 10 

224 Nicht im Geleise, von Ida Boy- 


Ed 20 

225 Camilla, von E. Eckstein 20 

226 Josua, eine ErzShlung aus bib- 

lischer Zeit, von G. Ebers 20 

227 Am Belt, von Gregor Samarow 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werne. Erster Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Zweiter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Drifter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Vierter Band 20 


229 In geistiger Irre, von H. Kohler 20 

230 Flammenzeichen, V. E. Werner 20 

231 Der Seelsorger, von V. Valentin 10 

232 Der Prasident,vonK.E.Franzos 20 

233 Ei’lachhof, Roman von Ossib 


Schubin 20 

234 Eiu Mann, von H. Heiberg. ... 20 

235 Nach zehn Jahren, von M. Jokai 20 

236 Um die Ehre, von Moritz von 

Reichenbach 20 

237 Eine Hof -Intrigue, von C. H. 

von Dedenroth 10 

238 Grafin Ruth, von Emile Erhard 20 

239 Eine unbedeutende Frau, v. W. 

Heimburg 20 

240 Boris Lensky, von O. Schubin 20 


Ein schoner ausgearbeiteter Catalog, enthaliend eine alphabetUche List, 
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CATALOGUE 

OF 

THE SEASIDE UBEAEV 

POCKET EDITION. 


All the numbers of The Seaside Librarit are always in print. Applications 
for Catalogues, with Imprint, should be sent direct to United States Book Co. 


AUTHORS’ CATAUOOUU. 

[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.'] 


By E. About. 

1467 A New Lease of Life 20 


By Mrs. Leith Adams. 


1345 Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling 20 


Husband.’* 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 

1046 Jessie 20 

Max Adeler’s Works. 

1550 Random Shots 20 

1569 Elbow Room 20 


Dower.” 

246 A Fatal Dower 20 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 25 

829 The Actor’s Ward 20 

1373 The Story of an Error 20 


By the Author of **A Golden 
Bar.” 


489 Betwixt My Love and Me 25 

Works by the author of “ A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

588 Cherry 10 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 1st half... 20 
1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. 2d half. ... 20 

1137 Prince Charming 20 

1187 Suzanne 20 


Works by the author of *‘A 
Woman’s Love-Story.” 


322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

677 Qriselda 8© 


By the Author of “For Mother’s 
Sake.” 

1900 Leonie; or, The Sweet Street 


Singer of New York 20 

By Hamilton Aide. 

383 Introduced to Society 10 

Gustave Aimard’s Works. 

1341 The Trappers of Arkansas.... 10 

1396 The Adventurers 10 

1398 Pirates of the Prairies 10 

1400 Queen of the Saynnah 10 

1401 The Buccaneer Chief 10 

1402 The Smuggler Hero 10 

1404 The Rebel Chief 10 

1650 The Trail-Hunter 10 

1653 The Pearl of the Andes 10 

1672 The Insurgent Chief 10 

1688 The Trapper’s Daughter 10 

1690 The Tiger-Slayer. 10 

1692 Border Rifles 10 

1700 The Flying Horseman 10 

1701 The Freebooters 10 

1714 The White Scalper 10 

1723 The Guide of the Desert 10 

1732 Last of the Ancas 10 

1734 Missouri Outlaws 10 

1736 Prairie Flower 10 

1740 Indian Scout 10 

1741 Stronghand 10 

1742 Bee-Hunters 10 

1744 Stoneheart 10 

1748 The Gold-Seekers 10 

1752 Indian Chief 10 

1756 Red Track 10 

1761 The Treasure of Pearls 10 

1768 Red River Half-Brsed 10 

By Mary Albsrt. 

983 A Hidden Twrar 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pock kt Edition.* 


* 


Cirant Alleu’s Works. 

712 For Maimie’s Sake 20 

1221 “ The Tents of Shem ” 25 

1788 The Great Taboo 20 

1870 What’s Bred in the Bone 20 

1908 Dumaresq's Daughter 25 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward. 20 

17 The Wooing O’t 20 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid.. 10 

490 A Second Life ... 20 

564 At Bay 10 

794 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

797 Look Before You Leap 20 

805 The Freres. 1st half ^ 

805 The Freres. 2d half ^ 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 2d half 20 

814 The Heritage of Langdale 25 

815 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

900 By‘ Woman’s Wit 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 

Australian Aunt 20 

1054 Mona’s Choice 20 

1057 A Life Interest 20 

1189 A Crooked Path ^ 

1199 A False Scent 10 

1367 Heart Wins 10 

1459 A Woman’s Heart 20 

1571 Blind Fate 20 

1582 An Interesting Case 20 

Alison’s Works. 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far 1”, , 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481 The House That Jack Built... 10 

By Hans Christian Andersen. 
1814 Andersen’s Fairy Tales 20 

By W. P. Andrews. 

1172 India and Her Neighbors 20 

F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 25 

225 The Giant’s Robe ^ 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

Romance 10 

819 A Fallen Idol 20 

1616 The Black Poodle, and Other 
Tales 20 

By Cr. W. Appleton. 

1846 A Terrible Legacy 20 

By Annie Armitt. 

759 In Shallow Waters 20 


1644 Stories for Parents 20 

1649 Seed-Time and Harvest. 

1652 Words for the Wise 

1654 Stories for Young House- 
keepers 

1657 Lessons In Life 

1658 Off-Hand Sketches. 

Sii* Samuel Baker’s Works. 

267 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 

533 Eight Years Wandering in Cey- 
lon 

1502 Cast Up by the Sea 

B. M. Ballantyne’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric 

95 The Fire Brigade 

96 Erling the Bold 

772 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 

Trader 

1514 Deep Down 


Honore De Balzac’s Works. 

776 PdreGoriot 

1128 Cousin Pons 

1318 The Vendetta 


S. Baring-Gould’s Works. 

787 Court Royal 

878 Little Tu’penny 

1122 Eve 

1201 Mehalah: A Story of the Salt 

Marshes 

1697 Red Spider 

1711 The Pennycomequicks 

1763 John Herring 

1779 Arminell 

1821 Urith 


Frank Barrett’s Works. 

986 The Great Hesper 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance 

1245 Fettered for Life 

1461 Smuggler’s Secret 

1611 Between Life and Death 

1750 Lieutenant Barnabas 

1828 Under a Strange Mask 


10 

20 

20 

10 


By J, M. Barrie. 

1896 My Lady Nicotine 20 

Basil’s Works. 

344 “The Wearing of the Green.”. 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest.., 25 

585 A Drawn Game 30 


By G. M. Bayne. 

1618 Galaski, so 

Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea so 

199 The Fisher Village. lo 


T. S. Arthur’s Works. 


1837 Woman’s Trials 20 

1686 The Two Wives 30 

1688 Married Life 20 

1840 Ways of Providence 20 

1641 Home Scenes ao 


By Alexander Begg. 

1605 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 

E. B. Benjamin’s Works. 


1706 Jim, the Parson 20 

1720 Oih: Roman Palace 30 




THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. t 


23 A Princess of Thule 20 


By A. Benrimo. 

1624 Vic 20 

By E. Berger. 

164G Charles Auchester 20 

By VV. Bergsol. 

1445 Pillone..- TO 

By E. Berthel. 

1589 The Sergeant's Legacy 20 

Walter Besant’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way,and Other 
Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

.230 Dorothy Forster 25 

324 In Luck at Last.... 10 

541 Uncle Jack 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 

882 Cliildren of Gibeon 20 

904 The Holy Rose 10 

906 The tVorld Went Very Well 

Then 26 

980 To Call Her Mine 25 

1055 Katharine Regina 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 

Greatness, and His Fall 20 

1143 The Inner House 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom 20 

1240 The Bell of St. Paul’s 20 

1247 The Lament of Dives 20 

1378 They Were Married. By Wal- 
ter Besant and James Rice. . . 10 

1413 Armorel of Lyonesse 20 

1462 Let Nothing You Dismay 25 

1530 When the Ship Comes Home. 

By Besant and Rice 10 

1655 The Demoniac 20 

1861 St. Katherine’s by the Tower.. 20 

M. Betham-Ed wards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- 
ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories 10 

594 Doctor Jacob 20 

1023 Next of Kin— Wanted 20 

1407 The Parting of the Ways 20 

1500 Disarmed 20 

1543 For One and the World 20 

1627 A Romance of the Wire 20 

1845 Forestalled ; or. The Life Quest. 20 

By Jeanie Gwyniie Bettany. 
1810 A Laggard in Love 20 

Bjornstjerne Bjornsoii’s Works. 

1385 Arne 10 

1388 The Happy Boy 10 

William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 
Timeg 20 


39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare ^ 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. ... ... 20 

50 The Strange Adventures b/ a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 

126 Kilmeny... 20 

138 Gi’een Pastures and Piccadilly 25 
265 Judith Shakespeare : Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness 10 

627 White Heather 20 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 

Two Young Fools 20 

962 Sabina Zembrsk. 1st half 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. 2d half 20 

1096 The Strange Adventures of a 

House-Boat 20 

1132 In Far Lochaber 20 

1227 The Penance of John Logan . . 25 
1259 Nanciebel: A Tale of Stratford- 

on-Avon 20 

1268 Prince Fortunatus 20 

1389 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

1394 The Four Macnicols, and Other 

T3(1©s 10 

1426 An Adventure in Thule 10 

1505 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart. 10 

1506 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M. P. . 10 

1725 Stand Fast, Craig-Royston ! . . . 20 
1892 Donald Ross of Heimra 20 

B. D. Blackmore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerley 20 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin.. ^ 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. 1st half ^ 

630 Cradock Nowell. 2d half ^ 

631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale ^ 

632 (_!lara Vaughan 20 

633 The Maid of Sker. 1st half... ^ 

633 The Maid of Sker. 2d half ^ 

636 Alice Lorraine, 1st half ^ 

636 Alice Lorraine. 2d half... 20 

926 Springhaven. 1st half 20 

926 Springhaven. • 2d half ^ 

1267 Kit and Kitty. 1st half ^ 

1267 Kit and Kitty. 2d half 20 

By Isa Blagden. 

705 The Woman I Loved, and the 
Woman Who Loved Me 10 

liy C. Blatlierwick. 

151 The Ducie Diamonds 10 

By Frederick Boyle* 

356 The Good Hater tO 


4 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 


Miss M. E. Braddott’s Works. 


35 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 

153 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery. 20 

2t)3 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1884. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

434 Wy Hard’s Weird 20 

478 Di'avola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 .Joshua Haggard’s Daughter... 20 

489 Rupert God win 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 25 

498 Only a Clod 20 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 30 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County ; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

548 A Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

5.53 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Iplieritance. (Se- 
quel to “ Bir(Mof Prey ”) 20 

557 To the Bitter Ehd 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20- 

560 Asphodel 30 

561 Just as I am ; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont's Legacy 30 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885, Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or. The 

Penalty of Fate 25 

881 Mohawks. 1st half 20 

881 Mohawks. 2d half 20 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

that Hath Us in His Net ” 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 

Lucius Da voren. 1st half 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 

Lucius Davoren. 2d half 20 

1036 Like and Unlike ^ 


1098 The Fatal Three 20 

1211 The Day Will Come 20 

1411 Whose Was the Hand? 25 

1664 Dead Sea Fruit 20 

1893 The World, Mesh and the Devil. 

By Annie Braflsha^'. 

706 A Crimson Stain 10 

Works by Charlotte M. Braeme* 
Author of “Dora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

51 Dora Thorne 25 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. ... 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 25 

73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love's 

Victory 20 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, A 

Broken Heart 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 20 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 25 

237 Repented at Leisure. (Large 
type edition) 20 


249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter;’’ 

or. The Cost of Her Love 20 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 20 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime; or, Viv- 
ien’s Atonement 20 

287 At War With Herself. 10 

923 At War With Herself. (Large 

type edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom 10 

955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. (Large 
type edition) 25 

291 Love’s Warfare 20 

292 A Golden Heart 20 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large 

type edition) 20 

294 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or. 

Lady Hutton’s Ward 10 

928 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or. 
Lady Hutton’s Ward. (Large 

type edition) 25 

294 Lady Hutton’sWard; or, Hilda; 

or. The False Vow 10 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward; or, Hilda; 
or. The False Vow. (Large 
type edition^ 20 

294 Hilda; or. The False Vow; or. 

Lady Hutton’s Ward 10 

928 Hilda; or. The False Vow; or. 
Lady Hutton’s Ward. (Large 
type edition) 20 

295 A Woman’s War 10 

952 A Woman’s War. (Large type 

edition) 20 

296 A Rose in Thorns ^ 


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1835 A Life for a Love. ByL.T. Meacle 20 

1866 Seventy Times Seven. By 

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1863 A Broken Blossom. By Flor- 
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1S6D Against the Grain. By Charles 

James 20 

iS70 What’s Bred in the Bone. By 
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1871 Straight as a Die. By Mrs. 

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1872 On the Scent. By Lady Mar- 

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1873 K a t e Va 1 1 i a n t. By Annie 

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1874 Blood-Money. By Chas. Gibbon 20 

1875 A Blood White Rose. ByB. L. 

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1899 My First Love and My Last 

Love. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell. 20 

1900 Leonie, or the Sweet Street 

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M.P 20 

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1919 Dead Men Tell No Tales, but 

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tus Sala 25 

1920 O’Hara’s Mission. By Wm. 

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1921 What Would You Do, Love? 

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